


A Sweet Christmas Romance

by TheWritingGiant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas Movie AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingGiant/pseuds/TheWritingGiant
Summary: When Jemma Simmons returns home for the Holidays, she learns that the owner of her favourite bakery is retiring and is holding a contest to give the bakery away to whoever can re-create his famous 12 Treats of Christmas. Determined to keep such an important part of her life from changing, Jemma decides to throw her hat in the ring. But winning won't be so easy when pastry chef Leo Fitz also enters the competition.
Relationships: Lance Hunter/Bobbi Morse, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Comments: 43
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I am back with another Fitzsimmons Christmas movie AU. This one is based on Lifetime movie A Sweet Christmas Romance. I think I’m in the minority with this, but I’ve always had this head canon that Fitz is actually really good in the kitchen, while Jemma is…awful. And every time I see someone saying the opposite because “cooking is chemistry,” I laugh because there is so much more to it than that. And this movie played right into that. So here we are. Also pay attention to the notes at the end of the chapters, some of them, not all, will include some recipes mentioned the chapters. Hope you enjoy!

Jemma Simmons took a sip of her tea as she watched the camera's flashes go off once again. It had been a long day so far, she couldn't wait for this shoot to be over so she could go home and finish her packing.

"We need you for a minute, Jemma," the photographer, Ethan Davis, called from his perch behind his lens.

Setting her cup down, she jumped out of her chair and scurried over to the man. "What's up?"

"We've changed the lighting a little bit to add more drama to the shot," he pointed to the laptop. "And now she needs a touch-up."

"Go work your magic, Jemma," Piper, the magazine supervisor, looked up from her phone and shot Jemma a smile.

She made her way over to the deep red backdrop and blink a few times as her eyes adjusted to the bright studio lights now shining right in her face. She studied the scene for a moment, thinking about the changes Davis had noticed and knew exactly what needed to happen. The turkey was too dry. With a smile, she reached back on her utility belt for her spray bottle of motor oil and gently spritzed the bird on the platter before her, before smoothing it over with her brush. Once the skin was sufficiently shiny Jemma turned to the greens on the platter, she fluffed them up a little and gave them a quick once over with some hairspray then gave the drooping orange slice a slight tweak. Standing back from the bird, she looked at it from a few angles, before heading back to Davis. 

"Looks perfect, Simmons," he said from behind his camera, already clicking away before she could even ask. 

Jemma smiled to herself as she walked back to her chair when her cell phone chimed. She looked at the screen and sighed, it was a notification from 'Single Mingle,' a dating app her friend Sherry had recommended. 'Seriously that's your job?' the message from HotTaddy80 read. 'That's not a real thing. You're just a makeup artist, right? Ever work with any celebrities? I met Tony Stark once.' She rolled her eyes at it, while she was used to people not knowing what a food stylist was, she hated when they just dismissed her occupation outright. She didn't understand why it was so hard to believe that any food one saw in a magazine, or add, or even on TV, had it's own stylist that made it look good. It was entirely different for dealing with people as a subject. 

Clearing the message, Jemma shoved her phone back into the pocket of her apron. She'd message him back later, maybe, Tad hadn't been the most interesting of guys to talk with anyways. Not over text at least. Besides, online dating was proving to be more trouble than it was worth. Some, like Tad, seemed more interested in name dropping than anything else, while others were just a complete bore, like her last match, Milton. She shuddered as their disastrous date to the skating rink a few weeks ago jumped to the forefront of her mind. They hadn't even gotten their skates, let alone out onto the ice before he'd needed to go to the hospital, after tripping over his own untied shoelace. No, she made up her mind, no more dating apps, when the New Year rolled around, she was going back to meeting people the old fashioned way.

"You are a magician, Jemma," Piper said, plunking in the seat beside her. 

"I'm just well trained," she smiled at the other woman. "Do you think your editor at Urban Gourmet will be happy now?"

"Fury is going to be thrilled," she smiled. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but the magazine is looking to hire a full-time food stylist, instead of freelancing. You'd be a shoo-in if you applied."

Jemma grinned. "The notice came across my email last night, I applied then and there. It'd be a dream to get that job." While she was quite successful with the freelance work she did not, it would be really nice to have the job security that a magazine like Urban would offer her. 

"Well, you know that you'll have a glowing recommendation from me," Piper smiled. "And Maria, she's always a little moody when you're unavailable for one of our shoots."

"Thanks, Piper," she said, looking at her phone again for the time. "Hey, do you think we'll be out of here on time today?"

"Why?" Piper asked in a teasing tone. "Got a hot date?"

"Hardly," Jemma scoffed. "I'm catching the 6;20 train home, out of St Pancras tomorrow, and I want to try and get to bed early tonight."

"You're going home for Christmas?" Piper asked. "Yorkshire, right?"

"Yeah," she grinned. "Sheffield."

"It's got that bakery you're always raving about right? the one with the, uh…" the other woman snapped her fingers to try and jog her memory.

"Twelve Days of Christmas Treats," Jemma finished.

"That's it," Piper exclaimed. "It sounds amazing."

"It is," Jemma confirmed dreamily. 

"Well, Davis seems to be making good headway and isn't being an annoying perfectionist today. So we should be out of here in more than enough time."

"Perfect," Jemma laughed.

*

By the end of the day Piper had more than kept her word, they even wrapped earlier than expected. It gave Jemma enough time to get her coffee maker preset, and a quick breakfast prepped for the morning. After giving her bags a final once over and setting them by the door, she was ready and tucked into bed by nine o'clock. 

The next morning was fairly relaxed, despite the early hour, as she went to the station. Her train was on time, and a little over three hours later she was strolling down a familiar street, her suitcase dragging behind her. There were a few inches of snow on the ground already, it didn't always happen, and it didn't always stay, but Jemma loved it when it did. She smiled at the people already out an about shopping as lovely puffy flakes gently fell from the sky. It was perfect. 

She could smell where she was headed from down the street, Lola's Bakehouse, her home away from home when she was growing up. The sweet, yeasty aroma beckoned to her as she stepped inside, the cafe was already full of people chatting over their morning coffee and pastry.

"Hey!" a cheerful voice drew her attention, as a tall, blonde woman darted through the tables over to her.

"Bobbi," she greeted her old friend with a big smile.

"Jemma," the blonde beamed and pulled her into a bear hug. "You should have let me or Dad know what time you were getting in, I would have come and picked you up at the train station."

"Oh no," she brushed it off with a wave of her hand. "I wanted to walk, take in all the Christmas lights, enjoy the snow."

"Does your Mum know you're here?"

"And my Dad and my Brother, but you know me," she explained.

"You love to do things your own way."

"Exactly," she smiled and looked around the bakery. "I see the place is packed already."

"Yuletide in the North," Bobbi shrugged. "Business as usual."

"Oh come on now," Jemma intoned. "You know it's not just business for your Dad."

"Jemma Simmons," another voice boomed out at her. She turned to the kitchen door and say an older man wearing an apron covered flour looking out at her.

"Coulson," she waved at the owner of the bakery, and Bobbi's father, as he tore the apron off and came around front pulled her into a tight hug.

"I'm so glad you came home this year," the man said excitedly as she squeezed her tight.

"I come home for Christmas every year," Jemma pulled back with a slight frown, it was an odd thing to say.

"Yeah, well, this one is going to be very special," Coulson began when the twinkling of breaking glass cut him off.

The three looked over to the source of the sound, and Jemma let out a laugh. "I guess Lola's wouldn't be Lola's without Hunter breaking something."

"Welcome home there, Love," Hunter called from the floor, where he was picking up the shards of the mug he dropped.

The trio chuckled as Bobbi went over to help and Coulson steered Jemma over to the counter. "Oh wow," Jemma breathed as she leaned closer to look at all the confections. "It all looks so wonderful, I just want one of everything."

"Well," Coulson smiled warmly at her. "How about I start by getting you a package of the First Day of Christmas iced biscuits?"

She lifted her head and grinned. "I don't know Coulson, your iced biscuits always so delicate, and beautiful, it almost feels like a crime to eat them."

"I have no doubt you'll find a way," he winked.

"True," she shrugged innocently. "Plus my family won't let me through the door without them, so there is that."

"Well we can't have that, let me go and fix a box for you and bring them to the counter," he said and headed back to the kitchen. "It's so good to see you again, Jemma. Welcome home."

"Thank you, Coulson." 

Jemma turned her attention back to the display case, as the man went into the back. Everything was so beautiful, from the designs and patterns of the frosting, the arrangement of the toppings on the tarts, the contrast of colours. She really couldn't have had a better teacher.

"Lost on a trip down memory lane there, Love?"

Jemma looked up at the till and shot the man there a teasing smile. "Lance Hunter, I can't believe that Coulson still lets you through the door."

"Ah, come on now, Jemma," he smirked. "You know he'd be hopelessly lost without me."

"Very true," she said after a beat, making them both laugh.

"It's good to see you," her friend smiled at her. "I got to tell you, it's just not the same working here without you."

"Lola's is still is Lola's though," she looked around the shop again. "It's timeless, and it never changes, it's one of the things love most about this place."

"Kind of funny you'd say that," Hunter leaned forward on the counter and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Because —"

"Here you are my dear," Coulson slid a box across the counter to Jemma, before Hunter could finish. "I have to go make a video call, but come tomorrow, coffee, let say nine a.m.? We can catch up properly, over breakfast. I have news."

"Oh," Jemma lifted an eyebrow. "Do tell." But Coulson was already back to the kitchens. "Phil Coulson making video calls?" she turned to Hunter. "When did he get so tech-savvy? I thought he was just getting used to his flip phone."

Hunter snorted and slid the box of biscuits closer to Jemma. "Does that a lot these days, not that it's my business."

She peered down at the box full of biscuits and smiled at the designs beneath. "How much?" she asked.

"Twice, sometimes three times a day I'd reckon," Hunter started.

"I mean the biscuits, Hunter," Jemma shook her head and waved the box gently in front of his face.

"I knew that," he blushed and typed it quickly into the till. "That £4.20. Good thing you arrived when did you did though. We'll be out of those guys within the hour most likely."

"Of course," Jemma laughed. "Who can resist the famous 12 days of Christmas treats, starting with iced biscuits."

"Then it's the gingerbread" he continued.

"The third day's shortbread."

"Then the rum balls," they said together and fell into laughter.

"Well," Jemma said, catching her breath. "I'd better get these guys home for my family before mum and Dad start searching for me. I'll see you tomorrow, Hunter."

"Of course," her old friend nodded. "And welcome home Jemma."

Jemma manoeuvred her suitcase, the box of biscuits, to the door, while trying to pull the zip of her jacket up a little higher. In all her juggling, she collided with someone coming through the door she was trying to exit. 

"Oh no," Jemma moaned as the box of biscuits dropped to the ground.

"Oh," the person, a man, bent down to retrieve the box. "I am so sorry. I didn't see you there."

"No, I'm sorry. I was trying to do too much at once, I wasn't paying attention," Jemma dismissed as he handed her, her box, she frowned at it. The once beautiful treats were now iced broken bits.

"Looks like those biscuits are crumbs," the man winced and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Let me replace them, yeah?" 

He turned to the till, but Hunter was already on the move, a new box in his hands. "Saw the whole thing," he pressed it into Jemma hands. "Grabbed another right away."

"Thank you," she sighed in relief, her family would definitely not be happy if they missed out on Coulson's biscuits.  
"Well," the man said, holding out a note to Hunter. "These are most definitely on me."

"It's no worries mate, I mess things up all the time, I get it," Hunter took the cash and hurried back to the front to help the next customer.

"Well, thank you," Jemma smiled at the man getting a good look at him for the first time. He wasn't too much taller than her, and he had the most striking blue eyes she'd ever seen, she shook herself out of her brief daze. "Thank you so much."

"Of course, I' 'm just happy that crisis was averted," he had a Scottish accent. Jemma loved Scottish accents.

"It always is at Lola's Bakehouse," she said.

"Right," he smiled at her. 

"Um, could you maybe help me with the door?" she gestured to her full hands.

"Oh, yeah," he shook his head. "Yeah, of course. Here." He pulled the door open for her as a gust of wind blew snow into the shop.

"Thank you," Jemma said, as she tucked herself deeper into her scarf and headed out into the snowy streets.

"No problem," the man called behind her as she headed down the familiar path home.

*

"It's great to have you back home, Jemma," her mother, Laurel, grinned as she placed the biscuits on the coffee table living room.

"I'm just happy you made it in when you did," Oliver, her step-father, pressed a kiss to her head before he reached for the tray. "They are calling for a major snowstorm over Christmas, winter storm Finley or something like that. The whole North East is supposed to get blasted."

"Well, I'm glad to be back," Jemma said as she hung an ornament on the tree, and made her way over to other couch where step-brother, Lincoln, sat. "I was getting a little homesick."

"For Sheffield or for Coulson's biscuits?" Lincoln raised a brow at her.

"Ha-ha," she glared at him playfully and gently smacked him in the head with a throw pillow as she took her seat."

"It's gonna be tough without them next year," Laurel said taking a biscuit of her own.

Jemma felt her jaw drop as the rest of her family hummed agreement around mouthfuls of the sugary treats. "What are you talking about?"

"Coulson didn't tell you?" Laurel looked at her daughter.

"Tell me what?"

"She's going out of business," Lincoln said, taking a sip of tea.

"What?"

"Not quite," Oliver shot his son a look. 

"Well he is closing the shop," Laurel shrugged took another biscuit. "A real shame, though."

"Would anyone care to explain?" Jemma all but begged. "Why is he closing up, is the shop doing poorly?"

"Coulson met someone," Lincoln said. "He fell in love, and now he's moving back to the States."

"What?" Jemma said again.

"Hey now," Oliver defended gently. "People our age are still allowed to fall in love." He wrapped an arm around Laurel's shoulders. "I do every morning."

Jemma shared a look with her mother and Lincoln. "Lame!" they chorused

"Anyway," Oliver huffed and poked his wife's side, as she squawked and moved away. "That's why he's closing up, I think it's wonderful. If anyone deserves another shot at love, it's Phil Coulson." 

"I'm happy for him," Jemma said, still a bit in disbelief. "Really, but I mean, does he really have to sell the bakery?"

"What other choice does he have," Laurel asked, snagging another biscuit. "It's not like Bobbi inherited the baking gene, no all of us get that skill."

"It's alright mum," Lincoln smiled. "We already know you can't cook."

"Not one edible bit," Jemma confirmed.

"Well, luckily I didn't have too," Laurel flicked, blonde hair over her shoulder. "Between Coulson and Oliver, I was set. Though how I didn't poison us both when you were little Jemma, I have no idea."

"I seem to recall a lot of takeaway," Jemma mused with a frown. "Coulson told me he wanted me to come by the shop tomorrow for breakfast, said he had something to tell me, I guess this was it."

"If it helps at all," Lincoln wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "According to Coulson, she's an amazing woman."

"No one's met her yet?"

"Bobbi has, of course," Oliver confirmed. "She never seems to run out of nice things to say about her."

"What's the town going to do without the bakeshop?" Jemma asked, more to herself than anyone else.

"There are plenty of other bakeries in Sheffield, Sweetheart," Oliver stood, squeezing Jemma's shoulder gently as he moved to the kitchen for more tea.

"Or we buy them from the grocery like most people," Laurel put in.

Jemma was glad she wasn't only one who wrinkled her nose at that. "Mum," she implored, picking up one of the beautifully decorated tree-shaped biscuits and holding it out for her mother to see. With its pale green frosting and intricate white detailing, it was stunning. "This is Christmas, a grocery store can't match it."

"Well," Lincoln snatched it out of her hand. "You had better enjoy every last bite. Doctor's orders." he grinned and snapped the biscuit in half, holding out the top for Jemma.

She took it and nibbled at it sadly, as her Dad rejoined them. As her family fell into chatter and laughter, Jemma let her mind wander. Lola's had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, would Christmas really be the same without it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy. Check out the notes for a recipe!

Jemma sat with Coulson in the back corner of Lola's. They'd waxed on about her life in London, her job, her family, even the weather. Still, Jemma could only reign in her curiosity for so long "So," she said, taking a sip of her gingerbread latte. "Tell me about her."

Coulson let out a small chuckle, unable to keep the wide smile off his face. "Well, her name is Melinda May. She is semi-retired and lives in New York. She's a stunt coordinator for several tv shows, isn't that neat?"

"That's very cool," Jemma smiled at the man. He was so happy, it was contagious. "I'm thrilled for you. What about Bobbi? Is she going back to the states as well?"

"No," Phil shook his head. He and his daughter moved to Sheffield and started bakery when Bobbi was eight, she'd never really known another home. "She has her security firm, her friends, a full life. She doesn't need me anymore."

"And what about the bakery?" Jemma asked bracing herself. "I can't believe you're just going to close it, it's your life's work.'

"Well, Bobbi and I actually came up with an idea," he leaned forward conspiratorially. "A baking contest, like Bake Off, only the prize, is Lola's." He gestured around.

"Really?" Jemma's eyes went wide. 

"Yup," Coulson smiled. "Whoever can duplicate my Twelve Days of Christmas treats, wins the lot."

"That is incredibly generous of you," Jemma said, hesitantly. She had concerns, many, many concerns, but Coulson clearly excited about the contest and she didn't want to stomp on that.

"Sheffield has been good to me," he explained. "I want to give something back before I go."

"And all they have to do is figure out your recipes?" she asked. It couldn't be that simple.

"No, not just that," he assured. "They have to match my taste, my presentation, my holiday magic."

"I don't think that's possible," she sighed sadly. While what Coulson did wasn't magic, it was unique, his talent was unmatched. She lived in one of the best cities in the world, with renowned cooks and bakers and she had yet to try any pastry that matched what Coulson did. 

"Bobbi certainly agrees with you," Coulson shook his head. "She thinks I should just sell the place and be done with it. She only agreed to go along with my plan on the condition that she gets the final say."

Jemma's head snapped up. "Wait so, someone could win the contest, but the bakery could still close? That doesn't really seem fair."

"I needed to keep the peace with Bobbi, I think with everything changing as much as it is, it's her way to keep some control," he shrugged. "I don't blame her. Besides, I trust her to do the right thing, especially this time of year."

The door jingled, and Jemma looked up to see the man she crashed into yesterday enter. He stomped the snow from his boots on the rug, and pulled the beanie off his head, running a hand through his sandy curls.

"He's pretty cute, isn't he," Bobbi asked from beside her making Jemma jump. "He moved here from California last summer, Los Angeles, I think."

Jemma tried not to blush as the blonde picked the empty cups up off the table and headed to the back room. Clearing her throat, she put her focus back on Coulson. "I wish I could enter the contest."

The man just chuckled. "I tried as hard as I could when you worked here, but I was never able to turn you into a baker. I think there's just too much of your mother in you."

"Well, you did teach me how to decorate cakes and biscuits," she smiled. "And I think that has worked out quite well for me so far."

"It has indeed," he reached out and squeezed her hand, beaming at her. "You can make food look more delicious and beautiful than anyone could imagine. You bring a baker's vision to life, and that is something special."

"Only because I had the best teacher," Jemma flushed.

He held up a finger and twisted in his seat. "Fitz," he called, and the man at the counter turned to look at him. Coulson beckoned him over with a wave of his wrist.

"Coulson," the man, Fitz, greeted with a smile as he approached. "How are you?" 

"I'm fantastic," he smiled and pointed across the table. "Jemma Simmons I'd like you to meet Leo Fitz. Fitz this is Jemma. She and her mother were my very first customers, and then Jemma worked here all through school with Bobbi and Hunter."

"Ah," he smiled at her. "It's nice to meet you, Jemma. Officially."

"Yes, officially," she held out her hand for him to shake. "It's nice to meet you as well, Leo."

"Please call me Fitz," he took her offered hand and looked to Coulson, who had his eyebrow raised questioningly. 

"We sort of met yesterday," she explained. "We just didn't get a chance to exchange names."

"Alright," Coulson nodded. "Jemma, you remember that old inn, the french couple bought last year."

"Yeah," she wrinkled nose. "Sally Webber told me they've ruined it, turned it into this snooty bistro that nobody likes." She looked up at Fitz, his lips pursed together tightly, and she knew she'd put her foot into it somehow.

"Fitz works as the pastry chef there," Coulson informed her.

"Oh," she closed eyes, yup, she put her foot in it deep.

Fitz let out an awkward chuckle and cleared his throat. "And what umm…what do you do, Jemma?"

"Jemma is a food stylist in London," Coulson supplied. "She works for all the major magazines. That spread you showed me in Crumbs a few months back, that was Jemma."

"That's quite impressive," Fitz said to her.

"Thank you," she replied, her voice still a bit tight with embarrassment.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Coulson snapped his fingers. "The contest," reached for the stack of papers to his left and handed a flyer to each of them. "You both know Eric Koenig, right?" 

They nodded. "Well, he said I could use his special events building to host the competition, it's an old barn he and his brothers renovated."

"Oh," Jemma cleared her throat. "I think that's where Mack and Elena got married last year, it's lovely."

"It's going to be perfect."

Fitz nodded in agreement. "Well, thank you," he held up the flyer with a smile. "I can't wait, but I do have to get going, a bit of shopping left to do." 

"Of course, Fitz," Coulson clapped his hand. "Have a great day."

"You too Coulson, thanks again," he turned to leave and looked back at Jemma over his shoulder. "Bye, it was nice to meet you, Jemma."

"You too, Fitz," she waved and watched as he walked out the door.

"Well, Jemma," Coulson said, drawing her attention back to him. "I hate to cut this short, but I have to go make a video call,"

Jemma smiled, he was practically vibrating with excitement. "Of course, Coulson. It was nice to catch up."

The man pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head as he rushed back to the kitchens. Hunter came over with a box barely a minute later. "Second Day of Christmas Gingerbread," he handed over the box of goodies with a flourish. "My personal favourite."

"Thanks, Hunter," she smiled. "Hey, can I get another latte to go?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Gingerbread again?"

"Surprise me this time."

"You got it," he smiled and made his way back over the counter.

Jemma strolled the street sipping at the last of her latte, peppermint this time, and went through the gifts she still had left to get. Lincoln was set and done for months now. She'd gotten him a hydroflask coffee mug in a lovely shade of grey, along with a cosy sherpa blanket in a blue and white pattern that looked like crackling lightning. Ever since he started up at the Children's Hospital, he'd been complaining about how cold it was, so those should help keep him nice and warm. For her mum, it was a winter jogging suit for her morning runs and a luxurious leather cover she could use for her law journals. She always hated taking a plain notebook to meetings or court, and the cover could move through each one as Laurel finished with them. Jemma was to pick it up in a few days times, after the engraving, a canary, her mother's favourite bird, was finished. Now it was just her dad, and he was much more difficult to shop for. She'd thought about getting him a personalized barbecue set and maybe a nice crystal decanter for his whiskey, but she wasn't sure, it didn't seem personal enough. She had just stepped out of a store when she saw Fitz up the street. He froze when he saw him, she did the same. 

"Hey, Fitz" she finally said after a moment, walking towards him.

"Jemma, hi," he smiled shyly.

They stood around in awkward silence for a minute before Jemma cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she began. "About what I said back at Lola's. I'm sure your pastries are delicious."

"That's alright," he smiled. "Sally Webber told you wrong about the Inn by the way. It does quite well with tourists and locals too. The snooty ones anyways." he added after a beat.

Jemma laughed at his words and smiled up at him. "Well, that's good."

"So," he pushed his hands into his pockets. "You live in London?"

"Yeah, Southwark," she nodded.

"I imagine Sheffield is a bit slow in comparison," Fitz winced sympathetically. "I bet you can't wait to get home."

Jemma shook her head, he couldn't be more wrong. "Sheffield is home."

Fitz wrinkled his nose in confusion. "I thought London was home?"

So he was one of those types it seemed, Jemma thought as she, cleared her throat, one of the ones where home is wherever you lay your head at night and nothing more. "Why are you entering Coulson's contest?" she changed the topic. "I mean the Inn must be a great job."

"The Inn's been good to me, true, but I've always wanted a place of my own. However, that requires a large investment," he explained. "So I'm just going to win it instead."

"I've been thinking of entering the contest myself," she said. "But I'm not much of a baker."

"Ahh," Fitz grinned at her. "Then I wouldn't waste your time."

"Excuse me?" she asked, that was very forward.

"I don't mean any offence," he rushed to explain with colour on his cheeks she knew wasn't from the cold. "It's just, baking is very personal, you either have the touch, or you don't."

"You and Coulson," she rolled her eyes. "Baking isn't about touch or magic. It's a science, chemistry. It was my best course at school, I actually double majored in it at university."

"I mean, yeah," he reached up and scratched at an ear. "There are recipes, of course, but-"

"What did you bake this morning?" Jemma asked, cutting off his ramble and changing tactics.

"Tarte Tatin," he answered proudly.

"Not exactly Christmas," she explained. "I mean people here want sticky toffee pudding, gingerbread, that kind of thing. Simple things. Not that fancy french stuff from the Inn." 

"Huh," he nodded stiffly. "Well, thanks for the advice, but I've got to get going. Have a nice day, Jemma."

"I'll see you around," she returned as Fitz continued up the street.

She watched him walk away, he was a cocky one. It only made her more determined. She wasn't going to let some smug, Cali-Scot transplant come in ruin her favourite place his fancy, snobby french food. Half the people Sheffield couldn't even pronounce Tarte Tatin, let alone want to eat it, Lola's would be out of business within a year with Fitz at the helm. No, it was decided, she was going to enter the contest, and she was going to win, she had to. She turned on her heels and started home, she had some work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> So, unlike Hunter, I'm not a huge gingerbread cookie fan in the traditional sense. I like chewy cookies, not crispy ones. So in the link to this chapter from my tumblr you can find a recipe for some nice chewy gingerbread-molasses cookies. I'm Agent-Bash over there.


	3. Chapter 3

When Jemma stepped into the house, she could hear her mother and brother in the kitchens. 

"Hey," Laurel greeted as she heard the door close. "How was your day?"

"It was alright," Jemma called back, putting the bags with her presents in her room before heading to the kitchen where her family were. "Hey do either of you know a guy named Fitz? He works at the Inn?"

"That's the cute one, right?" Laurel asked, looking down at Lincoln. "With the curly hair?"

"You're asking the wrong person," he said, not looking up from the notes he was writing. "Is he really cute Jemma?"

"I didn't notice," she said. "He's the pastry chef?"

"Oh yeah," her mother nodded. "That's definitely him, I've seen him in the grocery store."

"So he made an impression?"

"Jemma," Laurel intoned. "I love Oliver, but I do notice a handsome man when he walks by."

Jemma rolled her eyes, Fitz wasn't that good looking. "And Coulson thinks he fantastic," Laurel continued.

"I'm not so sure about that," she wrinkled her nose.

"What do you mean?" Lincoln asked, turning his page.

"He's entering the baking contest," she started. "And if he wins I really don't think that Lola's is going to be the place we know and love anymore."

"Ok, but he is a baker," Lincoln shrugged making a note. "Isn't he? How different could it be?"

"French pastries," Jemma pointed out. "Which isn't at all in keeping with the spirit of the bakehouse, especially during the Holidays. And he's just so overconfident," she insisted. "He just assumes he's going to win."

"Oh," her brother's head finally snapped up from his patient notes. "I see, so you do find him attractive then."

Jemma just about choked on her drink. "No, no. not at all."

"Then what difference does it make to you?" He asked. "At the end of the holidays you'll be back in London, and if Fitz wins, then he has the right to make all the clafoutis and Kouign Amann he wants."

"Ooh, do you think he'd make Opera cake?" Laurel looked at her. "I love Opera cake, I haven't had it in forever."

"Mum," Jemma said sharply, this was getting off-topic.

"Sorry," Laurel shook her head. "But it's really good."

She rolled her eyes; clearly, her family was no use. She needed to make a plan, and she needed to do it fast.

When Jemma walked into Lola's bright and early the next morning, the bakery was already bustling with people, and it hadn't even been open for a half-hour. She looked around at the couples trading bites of their sweets, the old ladies cooing at the decorations over their morning teas, and the family in the front corner. While the parents chatted, their young daughter turned a snowman cupcake round and round in her hands, admiring it in wonder from all angles. This was it, this whole place, the feeling that ran through her whenever she stepped through the door or took a bite of one of the confections, it's what made Christmas, well, Christmas.

She turned again and saw Bobbi in one of the back corners, deep in conversation with a man, his suit probably cost more than the rent for her flat. She felt the smile fall from her face as someone cleared their throat behind her. "Oh," she started. "Coulson, I didn't see you there, good morning."

"Good morning, Jemma," he smiled and handed her a box of shortbread. 

"Who's that man, Bobbi's talking with?"

"Oh," he frowned. "That's a real estate developer. She's meeting with a few of them to make sure we get a great deal."

"But the contest hasn't even started yet," Jemma protested.

"I know," the man rolled his eyes. "But Bobbi isn't convinced that anyone will win. Now, I'm sorry Jemma, but got to go pack the rest of these and get started on tomorrow's dessert."

"Of course," she said. "Have a good day, Coulson." She looked around again, as he moved back to the kitchens, she couldn't imagine this place as anything other than Lola's. 

"Jemma," Bobbi greeted happily as she approached, her meeting over. "Can I get you a coffee?"

"Are you really going to sell the bakery?" she asked the other woman.

Bobbi grimaced. "Look, Jemma I know you love this place."

"Of course, I do," Jemma insisted. "You, Hunter and I practically grew up in this building. I barely have a single important memory that doesn't somehow include this place."

"It's just a business decision," the blonde placated. 

"You're forgetting the contest," she snapped her fingers.

"It's a fun idea, Simmons," Bobbi gave her a wry smile. "And you know I support my dad, but no one is going to be able to bake like him."

"You don't know that for sure," Jemma raised her chin in defiance. 

"And that's why we're having the contest," she shrugged. "If someone can really bake like him then, yeah, the bakery is theirs. And I will keep an open mind, but I'm also a realist, and I want to be prepared for when Dad moves back to the states, and the town has to move on. You more than anyone should understand the desire to be prepared."

Jemma took a deep breath, she wasn't wrong. "Alright," she conceded. "That makes sense, I guess."

"Change sucks, Jemma," she placed a tender hand on her arm. "This place means a lot to me too, and I'll miss it when it's gone, but I'll still have my dad, and I'll have May, so it won't be all bad."

"I thought her name was Melinda?"

"Yeah, Dad, Hunter, May, Fitz," Bobbi shrugged. "We seem to just keep adding to the people in our lives that like to go by their last names."

Jemma laughed despite the pit in her stomach.

*

The snow continued to fall gently as Jemma made her way to the grocery. She'd stopped off at home and grabbed one of the cookbooks her dad had laying around. Her plan of attack was set, she just needed to do a bit of shopping first. So she strolled down the aisles adding items to her cart and waving at the familiar faces she saw. 

"Jemma Simmons," Isabelle Hartley, the owner of the grocery store, greeted. "What a treat to see you here."

"Hi Izzy," she smiled. "It's good to see you."

The older woman looked at book open in her cart, "You know they have recipes on the internet now right?"

"I know, but I'm a bit old school," Jemma explained. "And Dad said this book was a classic."

"Well, he isn't wrong," she laughed. "Happy baking."

"Thanks," Jemma nodded. "I'll see you later."

She'd just turn the corner when she heard Izzy call out again. "Fitz, wonderful to see you! What are you making today?"

She poked her head around the shelves and watched as the man offered the woman a bright smile. "Well, I've been craving Crepes recently, so I'm thinking Crepe Suzette."

Jemma rolled here eyes as Izzy all but cooed. It was ridiculous. Returning to the task at hand, she read down the list, she needed to find some sugar. But that, as it turned out, was not quite as simple as she thought it would be, caster sugar, cane sugar, Turbinado, Demerara, and Pearl, she had no clue. When did sugar stop being sugar? When she turned back to her cart to check and see if the book specified, she found Fitz there reading her book. "Can I help you?" 

Fitz's head snapped back up, and he cleared throat. "I know that cookbook, it's a classic," he turned back and made a show of perusing the shelves. "What are you making?"

"Shortbread," she responded.

"Good choice," he grinned over to her. "Nice and easy."

"I didn't choose it because of that," Jemma struggled to keep the glare off her face.

"No," Fitz shook his head. "That's not what I-"

"It's my favourite," she continued like he hadn't spoken.

"Right," he said softly, and they both turned back to the shelves again. "Hey," he snapped his fingers a minute later. "If it's your favourite, let me tell you my secret to the best shortbread. You use brown sugar and replace about-"

"You know," she cut him off and threw a bag of granulated sugar in her cart. "I think I've got it handled, thanks. If you'll excuse me, I've got to go and pick up some eggs."

"Oh, uh," he stammered. "Actually there are n-"

Jemma turned on her heels and behind her. "Have a nice day Fitz."

He watched as she walked away and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That went well," he sighed. He grabbed a small bag of flour and granulated sugar, he needed to bake.

*

Jemma heard the front door slam shut, and looked at the clock. It was probably Lincoln home after his shift at the hospital.

"Wow," he drawled out as he and Laurel saw the mess in the kitchen. "What did you do? Murder the Pillsbury doughboy?"

"You're hilarious," Jemma said, moving the cutouts to a baking sheet. "I'm trying to make shortbread like Coulson does."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she glared. 

"Let me help," Laurel moved to grab an apron.

"Whoa," Lincoln halted her with hand shoulder, while Jemma snatched the apron off the island. 

"No, no, no, no," Jemma shook her head. "I'm good, Mum, really."

"Yeah, Jemma'll be fine," Lincoln nodded. "You can step away from the baking sheets."

"Well, I think that means," Laurel grinned at them both and started backwards out of the room. "That you two just volunteered to clean this mess up all by yourselves."

"I'll sweep," her brother offered as Laurel disappeared down the hall. "If you wipe the counters?" 

"Just let me get these in the oven," she said, picking up the tray. "Mess aside from turning the mixer on too fast, I think it all went rather smoothly. I think these are going to turn out well."

Later that night, Jemma and her family have gathered in the living room once again. Lincoln and Oliver sat discussing the holiday football fixtures while Laurel read humming and awwing every so often to make it seem like she was listening. Jemma readied a plate of her shortbread and brought it in along with some hot cider.

She held the plate out to her mum and Lincoln first, as she sat down next to her dad. She looked across the coffee table and saw the faces they were making. "What?" she asked.

Laurel just shook her head and downed her mug of cider. 

"Have you tasted these yet?" Lincoln asked, swallowing hard.

Jemma quickly grabbed one and took a bite, then blanched.

Oliver shook his head at his family's antics and brought his own biscuit to his mouth. "Oh god, no" Jemma reached up and snatched the shortbread out of his hand. "Dad, no."

"What?" 

Jemma shook her head and forced herself to swallow the bite she'd taken. "They didn't turn out the way I wanted them too."

"Sorry, Kiddo," Laurel laughed at her daughter. "I think you firmly take after me in the kitchen department."

"Yup," Jemma agreed. "I might even be worse."

"Oh come on," Oliver waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Jemma. You just started."

"At least they look really nice?" Lincoln offered with a half shrug.

"At least," she picked up the plate and stomped back into the kitchen. 

Oliver followed. "What's up?"

"I don't get it," Jemma set the plate down with a heavy sigh. "I followed the recipe, I didn't do anything that wasn't listed, I know that it might not taste like Coulson's, but it shouldn't taste bad right?"

"That's not what I'm talking about," he said gently. "Why are you being so hard on yourself about this? About Lola's shutting down? Is everything alright? Is there something going on in London?"

"No," she shook head. "I actually just applied for a new job, Urban Gourmet is hiring a full-time food stylist."

"Well, you're a shoo-in for that," he knocked arm gently with his elbow. "I saw the Halloween shoot you did for them, they'd be crazy not snap you up."

"Yeah," agreed softly.

"Is that not a good thing?"

"It is but," she linked her arm through his and played with the cuff of his shirt like used to do when she was little. "I don't know, I guess I just miss home sometimes, especially lately, maybe it's the holidays."

"Home is always here," he kissed her head. "London has been good to you, but if it's not where you want to be, then you know me and mother support you however we can."

"Thanks, Dad," she smiled up at him.

Oliver left with a squeeze of her hand as Lincoln made his way over. "So, that was interesting."

She shot him a look. "Maybe Dad's fave cookbook isn't all it's cracked up to be, like eggs in the recipe."

"There are no eggs in shortbread," Lincoln frowned. "Even I know that."

"What?" she reached for the book. "Yes, there are."

"No, there's not."

She flipped to the page and ran through the list quickly. "No," she moaned, dropping her head onto the book. 

"What is it?" her brother asked, tugging the book out from under her. "What did you do?"

"I was reading the recipe for the cherry cake on the other side of the page." she groaned. "At least as far as the eggs were concerned."

"Well at least we have these to make up for it," Lincoln pulled the box of shortbread from Lola's over and took out a square.

"For now," Jemma pointed out. "But what about next Christmas?"

"Like Dad said, there are plenty of other bakeries in Sheffield."

"Next you'll say from the grocers like Mum," Jemma frowned.

"Maybe she's got a point too," he shrugged.

They took the plate into their family. "So I have an announcement," Jemma said as Lincoln sat back down. "I'm going to enter Coulson's baking contest."

Laurel and Lincoln's mouths drop. "Are you sure you want to do that, Jemma?" her mother asked.

"Are you insane?" asked Lincoln.

"Well, I think it's a great idea," Oliver beamed up at her.

"Thank you, Dad," Jemma shot other two a look. "Clearly you're the only one here who believes in me."

"That doesn't count," Laurel protested. "He didn't even try the shortbread."

"Baking is chemistry," Jemma proclaimed. "It's science. My experiment failed. I know where I went wrong, I misread the recipe, I correct for it, and try again."

"It is a common rookie mistake," Oliver offered.

"You're sure about this?" Laurel asked again.

"Yes," Jemma insisted. "It's perfect, really. No one loves the twelve days of Christmas treats more than me, the worse that can happen I flame out in the same spectacular fashion as tonight."

"Someone will win it Jem," Lincoln said. "Like Fitz. You just got to have a little faith."

"That's just it though," she explained. "A lot of the neighbourhood has traditions tied up with Lola's, not just us. And we all deserve to keep those traditions, but if someone can bake like Coulson, and Bobbi agrees, once they sign the lease, do get to do what they want, how they want. I know how to keep it exactly as it is, I know how to keep those things alive."

"Except," Lincoln pointed out. "The whole baking part."

"I can learn," she insisted. "I will learn."

"Well, we can't say you aren't good at that," Laurel spoke and shook her head. "You know you have my support."

"All of our support," Oliver agreed, pulling her into a hug.

"Thank you," Jemma leaned into him again.

"To Jemma," Lincoln lifted his cup. "Our newly minted Holiday baker, good luck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if your curious about Fitz's shortbread recipe, maybe I'll include a version of it later on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

"As it's only six days until Christmas Eve," Coulson said to the group gathered in front of him in Koenig's event hall. "We will only be making six of my Twelve Days of Christmas treats." He gestured to the display beside him.

"Now, as was stated in the contest rules," he continued. "We will not be providing you with a recipe. Each of you will taste the day's dessert, and then try your best to duplicate it. You'll go to the grocery store, purchase your ingredients, then come back here and bake. Myself, Bobbi, and Hunter," he gestured to each in turn. "Will be the judges. You will be judged on taste, presentation, and my personal favourite category, holiday magic."

Jemma resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and instead let her gaze wander up and down the line. She recognized a few people, there was Sharon Carter and Alisha Whitely, both of whom she went to school with, and Fitz of course, who was somehow standing right next to her. He smiled at everything Coulson said, determination in his eyes. She was going to crush him.

"We will be awarding points out of ten, whoever has the most points at the end of the day is the winner, while the person with the fewest is eliminated. These points carry over day to day, so it does pay to be consistent," Bobbi added. "Are there any questions?"

Everyone shook heads. "Now I grew up on my dad's baking," she continued. "I know more than anyone what these dishes are supposed to taste like. Which means that, if at the end of the competition no one can achieve the same level my father has, then no one will win."

Murmurs went up all around; apparently, Jemma was the only who had been made aware of this particular caveat. "Is that really fair?" Fitz asked. "Especially when we've committed so much time to be here and fight for the chance to win the bakery?"

"I'm a fair person," Bobbi soothed. "And if someone can really bake like my dad, then I won't stand in their way. But that is the competition; not who's the best baker out of the group. But who can bake exactly like my dad. There is a standard, a legacy, around Lola's and I won't pass that over to just anyone."

"Alright," Coulson clapped his hands together once. "Enough of that, it's time to get this contest rolling."

Hunter grabbed a Santa hat and held it out to Coulson. "Every day we'll draw to see what recipe we'll be doing. All twelve recipes are in here, so it will be like an advent surprise each day. Today's recipe is," he read off the card he drew. "Gingerbread."

Bobbi grabbed the tray with the biscuits on them and went down the line so all the competitors could take a sample. Everyone bit into their biscuits letting out please hums as they chewed. Jemma felt a nudge from her left and turned to see Fitz, holding his gingerbread man out to her. "May the best baker win," he smiled.

She clinked her biscuit with his and grinned. "Good luck."

*

Coulson had given them two hours to consult and concoct whatever recipe they were going to use and do their grocery shopping. So for the second times in as many days, Jemma wandered the aisles of the market, reading off a list of ingredients. While she had found a good base in her dad's cookbook, she knew it was missing something. Ginger and cinnamon were in her basket, of course, but there was something else, something more. She picked up some of the packs of spices in front of her and began smelling, maybe she could figure it out that way.

"Hey," Fitz greeted from beside her.

"Hi," she responded and tossed the baggy of cloves into her basket.

"You got everything you need?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I have everything I need."

"You sure?" he asked again. 

Jemma could hear the judgment in his voice, who did he think he was? "I'm sure," she replied firmly and started to check out.

"Okay, because-"

"I'll see you back at the barn, Fitz," she walked away, whatever he was going to say she didn't want to hear it, she wasn't going to let him psych her out.

Fitz sighed as he watched her walk away, his carton of eggs held up in his hand. Maybe he just missed them in her basket, under the plethora of decorating supplies.

*

It was just Jemma's luck that she was sharing a baking station with Fitz. She braced herself for more of his patronizing comments, but he buckled down and got right to work, not say anything to her. As Christmas music and the sounds of mixers filled the air, she was getting more and more frustrated. Her dough was just not coming together correctly, maybe she shouldn't have added those cloves in after all. Beside her, Fitz was already rolling out his dough. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and got back to work, stirring her batter.

"That sure is an impressive array of decorations," Fitz said as he picked up a tube of silver dusting sugar and placed it back on her side of the table. She toppled over onto his area with her frantic mixing.

"Tools of the trade, Fitz," she panted slightly, stirring the black treacle into her very stiff dough. "Do you know what you're going to do to make your gingerbread people stand out?"

"I prefer to focus more substance and taste," he replied absently as he placed another cut out on his baking sheet.

Jemma gave him a tight smile, she didn't think he meant anything by his words, even if they did sting a little. She understood baking was his job, but decorating was hers.

"I mean," he said when he saw her face. "I don't think someone who owns about five of the same grey T-shirts can really do anything to make them stand out, I guess these poor ginger people have to take after me."

She laughed and looked at him again to continue their conversation when she saw the open carton eggs beside him. "Oh no," she scrambled for her notecard. "Please, please, please, not again."

"Jemma, you alright?" Fitz asked, dusting off his hands.

"I forgot the eggs," she groaned. "I must have mixed up the recipes again as I was writing them out."

"Hey, that's alright," he assured and held out his container. "Take one of mine."

"No," Jemma refused gently. He was kind to offer, but she did not need him to fix her mistakes. "That's nice of you really, but it's alright."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "They really won't taste right without the egg."

"Maybe I'll get extra points for presentation, and magic," she rolled eyes at the last part, and reached for her bag. She had a lot more materials in there she could use to really jazz up her biscuits.

While Jemma formulated her new plan, Fitz reached across the table and, as quietly as he could, cracked an egg into her bowl, pushing the dough around to disguise it. It was a rookie mistake, besides he'd seen the cloves she added to her recipe, it was a good guess, he had tasted them in Coulson's cookies too. Jemma clearly had good instincts, he wasn't going to let stubbornness take her out in round one.

As Jemma turned back around, he returned to his own dough and whistled along with deck the halls as he rolled out another batch.

*

"I'm surprised my gingerbread turned out so well," she mused as she and Fitz decorated their now baked biscuits.

"Maybe it's the Christmas magic component of the competition," he replied as he piped white buttons down his ginger person's middle.

Unable to help herself, Jemma watched what he was doing. All his biscuits looked precisely the same, red trousers, a white smiling face with three little buttons down the middle. They were gingerbread men, no doubt, but there were also dull and plain. "You know," she picked up her brush and green frosting. "A little extra icing could really help liven up your biscuit people."

"I think they're fine," he muttered as he grabbed for another. They most certainly were not, she thought to herself and moved quickly to pipe a few blue lines at the wrists and neck for a sweater and large green dollop on the cutout's head.

"Hey," Fitz protested from behind her, but Jemma ignored him.

"You see," she said as she moved her brush through the icing. "A little beanie, just like you, and if you let that set a minute, you could pipe on a pompom or a white or red banding line for some more definition."

"My ginger-people are simple folk," he insisted.

"Style can be simple," she informed.

Fitz's eyes darted between her and his biscuit before he took a cloth and scrapped the green icing away. Jemma rolled her eyes, let him be stubborn then, she thought, after all, presentation was a category and not one he would score well in.

"Alright, bakers," Coulson called from the front. "That's time for the day, Hunter is going to come around and collect your gingerbread for judging."

All the competitors gathered at the judging table. They watched as Hunter, Bobbi and Coulson ate small bites of each biscuit. It was nerve-wracking, Jemma tried hard not to rub at her temple, a habit she had, when she was worried. Beside her Fitz was wringing his left hand, it was nice to see that he wasn't totally cool and confident. 

"I see you brought the fan club," Fitz smiled at her, nodded his head to where her brother and mother stood in the small crowd of people.

She smiled at them, as Lincoln gave her thumbs up. "That's what family's for right?" she asked, looking at him. "Do you—"

"Okay," Bobbi's voice cut her off. "We ask that each of you step forward when your name is called to receive your score. I'm going to be keeping a running score of the final numbers."

"Raina," Coulson said. A woman flower dress, Jemma didn't recognize, stepped forward. "That was a very nice attempt, I'm giving you a seven and a half."

"It's a six from me," Bobbi piped up.

"Oh," Hunter frowned. "I gave her a four."

"Tough judge," Coulson laughed as Raina glared at the younger man.

"Fitz," they called after a few more people. Jemma watched as he stepped forward, wringing at his hand again.

"Well done!" Coulson tapped beside his biscuit. "I gave you a nine."

"It's a nine and a half, from me," Hunter winked as Fitz's shoulders relaxed. "Those were delicious, Mate."

"I gave you a six," Bobbi told him. "I agree that your gingerbread tastes amazing, but they lacked a bit on the presentation."

"Thank you," Fitz grinned and stepped back in line.

"And finally, Jemma," Coulson called her up.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward, while she didn't think she'd beat Fitz, she hoped she'd done enough.

"Seven, it was a good job Jemma," Coulson told her with a smile.

"I gave Jemma a four," Bobbi frowned and mouth 'sorry' to her.

"A six," Hunter nodded his head as Jemma stepped back into line.

"You know I'm pretty good at math," Fitz said as the trio of judges input numbers into the computer. "And I think I won."

"I think I didn't lose," she replied, wracking brain for everyone's score.

"Alright competitors," Coulson stood from his seat. "The numbers are crunched, and I don't think it comes as a surprise to anyone that today's winner is, Leo Fitz."

Everyone in the room clapped as Fitz looked down at the ground, the tips of his ears flaming red but his smile was wide on his face.

"And the person going home today," Coulson continued, Jemma bit a lip. She nervous, if she had her math right then, she was safe, but there were a lot of numbers to go through, she could have misheard. "…Victoria Hand."

A woman with dark, red-streaked hair stepped. "It was a great effort Victoria," Bobbi said clapping along with the rest of the room. "Thank you for coming out and don't forget to grab your gift basket. It's filled with some baking tools, ingredients, popular recipes and of course, some of Dad's most famous treats."

Coulson rose from the table and came to stand in front of them. "Thank you all, we'll see you tomorrow where Fitz will pull our next recipe. Remember, even if you don't win, please keep baking," smiled over to Victoria.

"Congratulations on staying in the game," Fitz smiled at her as the others filtered around the room, starting their clean up. Sharon had volunteered to stay behind and do up the dishes for them all.

"And congrats on winning…today," she teased.

"Pretty sure I got this," he bit his lip to hide his smirk.

"I'm pretty sure you're forgetting, Bobbi," she pointed to where the tall blonde stood deep in conversation with Hunter. "She is determined to see whoever wins as meeting her dad's exact standards, and Phil Coulson is no slouch when it comes to decorating."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Check out my tumblr for a sugar cookie recipe. I'm Agent-Bash over there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Eve everyone! If you don't celebrate Christmas then happy Tuesday!

Jemma went to Lola's later that afternoon with Lincoln, to get some coffee before they did some shopping and grabbed a quick bite to eat before his shift. 

"Hey Coulson," her brother greeted the man. "Great job on the contest, it's really fun to watch."

"Well, thank you, Lincoln," he smiled at the blond. 

"Have you considered maybe giving some of the leftovers to the audience?" the younger man mused, pointing to himself.

"Lincoln!" Jemma admonished and gently slapped her brother's arm.

"What?" he shrugged. "I get hungry when I watch people bake."

"I'll see what I can do." Coulson chuckled. "Jemma can I speak with you a second?"

"Sure," she turned to her brother. "Place our order?"

"Course," he gave the older man a wave and went to the counter.

"That was a really nice try today," Coulson told her, pulling her to the side. "I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks," she grinned.

"But," why was there always a but, Jemma thought. "You need to remember, the secret to holiday baking is the magic."

"That's easier said than done," she replied. Especially because magic doesn't exist, she told herself.

"There's nothing easy about it," he conceded and patted Jemma's hand. "It feels like I've two maybe even three lifetimes into my baking. Some of my earlier cookies, they weren't even edible."

"I don't believe that," Jemma laughed.

"Well, you should," he chuckled. "I sent myself to the hospital with food poisoning more than once. It's how I met Bobbi's mother. But I kept trying, and so should you. I know the contest is only a week long, but I have faith in you, you can find the magic."

"But what is that exactly?" she frowned. "What it "the magic?'"

"You need to find that of yourself that understand the meaning of Christmas, then you make that into an ingredient," he explained. "It's not all about how the food looks."

"I know," she wrinkled her brow. "I guess I just don't understand how if..." she trailed off. She was going to say that if a recipe as it was written wasn't good enough, then what was the point of even having one? But Jemma knew better than to say that to Coulson. "I'll try harder tomorrow."

"I know you will," he squeezed a shoulder. "Good luck." 

Jemma watched as Coulson walked away when she was sure he was out of earshot she let out a huff of air. "Magic," she frowned and rolled her eyes. What kind of nonsense was that?

"I don't know if I can get the hang of this whole baking thing," she confessed later as she and Lincoln walked up the streets. "Maybe I do take after Mum."

"You're doing fine Jemma," Lincoln promised. "So, why are we going to the Inn?"

"I'm curious," she said after a minute.

"Oh," he nodded, the word dripping sarcasm. "Curiosity and I thought I was helping you stalk the competition. You know that cute, curly-haired pastry chef you share a table with he works there."

"Staking out," Jemma corrected. "Not stalking."

"So you do think he's cute," he smirked.

"I never said that," she protested. "Besides Fitz won't even be there."

"You know his schedule?" he gasped teasingly.

She glared as they walked up the steps to the Inn. 

"So," Lincoln started after the waiter delivered their drinks and took their order for the night's dessert special. "Now that you aren't hearing it from Sally Webber, what think of the place?"

"I have to admit," she looked around and took a sip of her gin and tonic. "It's nice."

"I know the old inn had its...charms," he said. "But this place is elegant now. The neighbourhood needed a place for romantic nights out."

"Because you have so many of those," she pointed. Her brother ducked his head and blushed. "Lincoln," she gasped. "Are you seeing someone?"

"Maybe," he mumbled into his coffee.

"What?" She nearly shouted. "Who? Where did you meet? When did you meet?"

"Shhh," he hissed. "Her name is Daisy, I met her at work."

"Ah, the old fashioned way," she nodded. "And to think you were the one who insisted that dating apps were the only way to go. So tell me about this Daisy."

"She's a paramedic," Lincoln grinned. "She's funny and smart and…I don't know it's really new, there isn't that much to tell yet."

"But you like her," she teased.

"What about the last guy you dated, huh?" He asked. "What was his name again?"

"Will," she shook her head. "it just didn't work out."

"And why not?" he lifted an eyebrow. "Was his face not symmetrical enough?"

"No," she glared. "We just wanted different things. Our relationship, seeing if we had a real future, it wasn't a priority to him, he was a workaholic."

Lincoln scoffed at her. "What?"

"You're a workaholic Jemma," he pointed out.

"I know how to take time off," she protested. "Like coming home for the holidays and spending quality time with my annoying brother."

"Fair point," he laughed. "But, I don't know, being alone in a city as big as London, it just seems wrong. Any news on the job you told Dad about?"

"Not yet," she shook head as their waiter sat their plates down in front of them.

"Oh," Lincoln held up the dessert. "Does Coulson bake _mille-feuille_?"

"Nope," she looked down at her own cake. "I guess we know what Fitz plans to do if he wins the contest."

"Why don't we just asked him," Lincoln said, looking over Jemma's shoulder.

She twisted in her seat, and sure enough, Fitz was there, in his crisp clean chef's whites, walking towards them. "Hey Jemma," he greeted with a shy smile. "This is a surprise."

"Hi," she smiled back. "I, uh, didn't think that you would be here."

"I work here."

"Yes," she acknowledged. "But I thought pastry chefs keep early hours?"

"Uh," Fitz went to scratch at his ear but stopped himself. "Yes, we do. But I've adjusted my hours for the baking contest. I'm just finishing up prep for tomorrow."

"I'm Lincoln," he cut in. "Jemma's brother." 

"Right," she shook her head as Fitz shook Lincolns offered hand. "I'm sorry I should have introduced you."

"It's nice to meet you," Fitz said. "I'm-"

"Leo Fitz," he supplied. "You're Jemma's main competition."

Jemma shot her brother a look, but he just shrugged his shoulders as if to say what.

"Well, uh," Fitz cleared his throat. "I hope you enjoy your pastries, even if they aren't a part of Coulson's twelve days of Christmas. I've got to get back in the kitchens."

Jemma gave him a small smiled and waved as he walked away. Her eyes followed him as he made his way over to the maître d and showed a note. "This is delicious," Lincoln drew her attention back to him. "You should really try yours."

She took a bite of the dessert and moaned. The pastry was flakey and buttery, melting away the moment it hit her tongue and blending in perfectly with the sweet, smooth cream layers.

"You sure nothing is going on between you and Fitz?" He grinned and took another bite of his cake.

"Positive," she swallowed. "He's just another workaholic, probably grew up in some rich family in Glasgow or Edinburgh before going to some fancy pastry school in Paris."

Lincoln laughed into his coffee, "Shame, Christmas is the most romantic time of year."

"Oh yeah," she raised an eyebrow. "Is that was Daisy says?"

"Maybe it is."

"Well," she laughed. "The only present I want this year is the bakery."

"And you're really willing to give up your work and life in London to move back here and run it?"

"If you're asking me if I've thought this all the way through-"

"I'm not," Lincoln cut in. "I know you, of course, you've thought this through, practically. I'm asking if this will make you happy? Coulson would hate it if you won and then either let the bakery go out of business because you wanted to be in London. Or if running the bakery kept you away from where you really wanted to be, and what you really wanted to be doing, out of some sense of obligation to him."

"That would never happen," she insisted.

"Because you'd let Fitz do all the baking?" He asked 

Jemma snorted a laugh. "I think we both know my winning is a long shot. I mean you have to remember, I can't actually bake."

"There is that," he finished his drink and looked at his watch. "Alright, Jemma, I gotta get going. Thanks for today." 

"Have a good shift," she stood and hugged him goodbye.

"Mind if I join you, Love?" Hunter's voice came from behind her. 

She turned and smiled at her friend. "Not at all, I'd be glad for the company."

"Perfect timing," Lincoln nodded his greeting while winding a scarf around his neck. "I'm just heading out. Good luck tomorrow, Jemma, sorry I can't be there. Don't go easy on her Hunter."

"Always," the man winked and slid a mug across the table to her. "Drink up Jemma, we got a lot of catching up to do."

"Thank you," she took the Irish coffee and took a deep sip.

"I've got to tell you Jemma," he shook his head. "I really hope you win the contest. It would be great to have you move back to town."

"It's a lovely thought, Hunter," Jemma gave him a rueful look. "But we both know it's highly unlikely. Though I am surprised that you didn't enter, you took to baking so much better than I did, you must be pretty great at it by now."

"Coulson has taught me loads, no doubt," he nodded. "And I thought about it, but running a small business, it ain't me. I don't want to be stuck in the kitchen baking and baking and baking. Nah, I like being on the front lines and in the thick of it. Talking to people, seeing how much they enjoy the food, that's what makes me happy."

Jemma smiled at him. "You're lucky to know that most people don't."

"Do you?"

"Of course," she said quickly. "I love my job."

"Then I guess we're both lucky," he raised his drink in a toast.

"We are," she clinked their mugs together.

Jemma had to cut herself off after two more cups of creamy spiked coffee. Catching up with Hunter had been fantastic, but she knew the man would get her thoroughly trashed if she let him. She didn't think attempting to do the contest hungover would improve her odds at all.

"Heading out so soon?" she heard Fitz ask from behind her as she tugged on her coat.

"I need to get a good nights sleep if I'm going to kick your butt tomorrow," she grinned over her shoulder at him.

"Oh-ho," he chuckled. "Well, you may be in luck. I doubt the recipe will be _mille-feuille_."

"Are you really telling me you don't know what the Twelve Days of Christmas Treats are?"

"Sure I do," he counted them off on his fingers. "There's gingerbread and shortbread, of course. Then it's Earl Grey profiteroles, white forest meringue roulade…and I'm completely joking." He said at Jemma's horrified look. "Can I show you something before you head out?"

"Sure," she nodded in surprise and followed him as he led her through the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Also if you've never had _mille-feuille_ it's amazing, I highly recommend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I hope those of you who celebrate have had a Merry Christmas with your families and loved ones I know I'm just under the wire with this one, at least where I live, but I hope you all enjoy!

Jemma wasn't entirely sure what she was staring at. Fitz had taken her back to the kitchens and shown her what he'd been working on that day. There were white, crunchy looking blobby disks, stacked on top of one another, with cream in between each one. The base was decorated with some sugared cranberries and mint leaves, and the whole thing was dusted with powdered sugar. "It looks delicious," she offered. But what was about all she could say about it. "What is it, exactly?"

"A pavlova," he explained with a bit of a frown. "An Australian family is staying with us over the holidays, they requested it. It's a traditional down there. I was hoping you'd give me your expert opinion on the presentation."

She looked up him in shock. "Really?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"What happened to focusing on substance and taste?" she teased.

Fitz smiled. "It's been pointed out me that presentation is equally important. People eat with their eyes as much as their taste buds. And this is something special, so any suggestions?"

She twisted plate around on the lazy susan, looking at it from various angles. "When do you need this for?"

"Christmas Eve," he replied.

"Well, I don't know much about pavlova," she stood up. "I have a few ideas, but I want to do some research first. Just to make sure they'll keep with tradition. Is it alright if I get back to you in a few days?"

"Really?" He sat up straighter from where he'd been leaning against the counter. "You'll help?"

"Of course," Jemma shrugged. "It'll help make someone's Christmas special."

"Thank you," he smiled. "Oh, here, I have something for you." He moved to the fridge and pulled out a takeaway box. "Here."

"What's this?" she asked as she took the box from him.

"The last of the _mille-feuille_ from tonight," he said. "I saw how much you and your brother liked it. There's plenty of leftovers for you two and parents, and it keeps pretty well overnight."

"Thank you."

"I mean," he waved. "I know it's not one of Coulson's specials, but it's pretty good with a morning cup of coffee."

"My family will love this, thank you," Jemma gestured with the box. "Good night, Fitz."

"Night Jemma."

*

Fitz had been right, the cake had been delicious the next morning. Jemma, her mum and dad, polished it off between them. She felt a little bad for Lincoln, it probably would have been a nice pick me up after a night at the hospital, but what he didn't know he wouldn't miss.

"This is nice," Laurel looped her arm through her daughters as they walked out of one of the shops. "We don't get to do this enough."

"We would," Jemma pointed out. "If you would come down and visit me in London more often." 

"How does the shopping there compare to Sheffield?"

"Well it's quieter," Jemma started. "There are more families and quaint local businesses, so really, it's a lot more fun."

"It's starting to sound like you miss it here," Laurel smirked. 

"I do miss it," she insisted as they headed back to the car. They were just getting to the cross the road when they saw Fitz flicking through one of the racks outside a clothing store.

"Hello there, Fitz," Laurel greeted, smirking daughter and pulling her over.

He turned at his name and smiled. "Hey, doing a little shopping?"

"Just finished," Laurel shook her bag. "Jemma tells me she's helping you with a pavlova you made."

He looked over to Jemma and grinned. "She is. She very kindly agreed to lend me her decorating skills."

"Well, it sounds like it's going to be spectacular," her mum said. "But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get this stuff home, I'll leave you two to discuss the contest."

Jemma's mouth dropped as her mother turned heel and headed to her car. She turned to look back at Fitz and saw him grinning at her mother's retreating back. "So" he started when he saw Jemma looking at him. "Have you got many presents left to buy?"

"I just need to figure out a couple things to get for my dad," she answered.

"I'm actually contemplating buying myself this scarf," he showed her a long multi-coloured striped and plaid flannel thing. It was hideous.

"Well, it looks, warm" she offered.

"This is going to be my first Christmas outside of Los Angeles since I was twelve," he said, putting the monstrosity around his neck. "So warm is good." She bit her lips as he twisted the ends around, so both the plaid and stripes showed. "You're right," he nodded. "Definitely warm. But is it fashionable? I mean you're from London, right, so thoughts?"

"That scarf is all the rage in London right now," she joked, trying not to laugh.

"Sold," he declared, taking it off his neck. "I'm buying it." 

"No, no, no, no," she stopped him with a hand on his arm as he moved to go into the shops. "I was just kidding."

"Londoners do not kid about fashion," he said in faux seriousness.

"I've told you," she reminded him. "I'm a local girl."

"Well, Local Girl," he looked down at the scarf. "It's too late, I'm buying it, it's mine."

She laughed and felt her phone chime in her pocket. She pulled it out and choked when she saw the time. "Uh, Fitz." he stopped whatever it was he was doing and looked at her. She held her phone up so he could see what time it was. "We're really late."

"Oh crap," scarf off. "I'm going to go pay for this."

"Ok," she shook her head as he hurried past her into the store, shouting a 'love this scarf' behind him as he went.

They made it to the barn with barely a minute to spare. Hunter was waiting for them at their station. "Cutting it a little close there," he smirked at them and shook the Santa hat at them. Fitz blushed as he reached a hand in and pulled a card then handed it to Coulson.

"Sticky toffee pudding," he called loudly to the group.

"Yes," Jemma pumped her fists. 

"You're excited," Fitz raised an eyebrow. 

"It's my dad's favourite, I really want to make for him, and he's supposed to be here today."

"Alright then," he picked up two of the dishes from the tray Bobbi brought around. "Good luck." he clinked his bowl with her's.

"Good luck."

*

Bobbi took a few minutes to answer some text messages while the contestants baked away. Her father liked to walk between them all, checking on their progress, she wasn't much help with that. Other than denying one of the developers request for a second pitch. "You know, I've never actually had sticky toffee pudding before," she heard Hunter say from behind her.

"What?" she tucked her phone away and turned to face him. "Are you serious?"

"Don't know what it is," he wrinkled his nose. "The name maybe, but it's never appealed to me. Why, what's it taste like?"

"Sticky toffee," she said simply. She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the tray where a few extras of the desserts sat. "Here," she pressed one into his hands. "You at least need to try the good stuff before you judge the rest. We can't have you under or overscore someone because of you're egregious error in judgment."

Hunter hesitated as he took a small bite of the brown cake. Bobbi watched his brown eyes widen with delight and smiled. "Good right?"

"Fantastic," he moaned and took another bite. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"

"You work at the bakery Hunter."

"Speaking of, can I ask you something?" he said around a mouthful.

"Sure."

"Who do you think will win?"

"Honestly?" she sighed. "No one."

"What?" he stopped with a spoon halfway to his mouth.

"I don't think any of them can come close to dad's baking," she shrugged. "And with him gone, the shop is better off closing."

"You don't really think that do you?"

"I do, it's the end of an era," she said as her phone buzzed again. "Sorry I have to take this."

"Alright, ladies and Fitz," Hunter's head snapped to the front as Coulson called loudly. "Time to put those puddings in the oven." 

Under an hour later, the baker's once again stood in front of the judging table. Fitz was wringing his hands again, pressing so tight into the meat of his felt hand that Jemma was worried he'd pinch a nerve. She nudged his arm gently with her elbow drawing his attention and gave him a reassuring smile, hoping it would calm him down a little.

"Oh," he whispered and pointed to her cheek. "You, uh, you have something on your face there." 

She reached up and brushed crease of her nose. "No just a little higher," he advised. She brushed across cheek a little more before Fitz held up a rag. "Can I?"

"Please," she nodded.

He gently reached up and brushed the cloth against the side of her face. She looked at him, his face was so close she could see all the different shades of blue in his eyes. A clatter of forks from the judge's table jolted them apart. "Got it," he cleared his throat and stepped back into line.

"Thank you."

*

"Step forward please, Jemma," Bobbi said from the table.

She took a small step forward, she always hated presenting last in school, it was no different now. "Eight!" Coulson declared happily. 

"Eight and a half," Hunter beamed at her.

Bobbi cleared her throat. "Well, Jemma, your pudding has been well received by my dad and Hunter, I'm sorry to say not quite there for me."

"What?" Hunter asked. "Not sticky enough."

Laughter went up all around. "It just didn't taste right, I'm not feeling the magic," the blonde said. "Jemma I'm sorry, but I'm giving you a five."

She saw Coulson and Hunter's jaw drop, as her own face fall.

"Let me add the scores to yesterdays," Hunter cleared his throat, and Coulson leaned over to watch

It was a dreadful half minute for Jemma until Coulson smiled again. "Congratulations Jemma, you have made it through another round."

She sighed in relief, as the rest clapped, in celebration for her, and sympathy for Alisha. "Sorry," she said to the redhead as she fell back into line.

She felt a touch at her elbow, and Fitz leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Way to go."

Jemma turned and smiled at him as the group started to disperse. "Thank you. So what are you planning on doing with the rest of your day?"

"Oh," he frowned in thought. "I'm not sure really-"

"Jemma, Fitz," Coulson called cutting him off. "Would you two mind doing the tidy up today? Hunter and I are needed back at the bakery."

"Uh, sure," Fitz agreed. "I can at least if you have somewhere to go."

"No," Jemma shook her head. "I can stay and help, just let me go and tell my dad what's going on."

"Thank you," Coulson nodded his head and took another bite of Jemma's pudding. "So good," he grinned at her and shot his daughter a look. "How could you give this a five?"

*

It had never really been Jemma's experience that many hands make light work. Still, her and Fitz made a good team, they managed to get the events hall back in order in under an hour. She was just finishing folding the aprons when Fitz snagged her days' pudding from the tray in front of her and jumped up onto station.

"Hey!" she protested he tucked into a bite.

"Mmh," he nodded as he chewed. "Jemma, this is great. How did Bobbi give this a five?"

She hopped up on the table beside him and grabbed his days attempt, that had awarded him nines all around. "Oh wow," she grinned as the flavours melted over her tongue. "Fitz, this is…I don't think I could tell the difference between yours and Coulson."

"Thank you," he said, thickly around another bite and held up her dish. The red berries gleamed in the light, and she was happy that the icing sugar hadn't melted into the pudding yet. "But your's is beautiful. Mine kind of looks like I don't know, sticky mud."

She let out a soft laugh and looked over his dish. He had put a few lovely curls of chocolate on top, but there wasn't much contrast in colour, it was just brown. "Maybe a little."

He held up her dish again and turned it to look at it from different sides. "I really need to work on my decorating skills."

"It just takes practice," she smiled as tucked into rest of the dessert. "But I have come up with a few ideas for that pavlova of yours."

"Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah," she nodded. "I could stop by the in tomorrow if you wanted and we could discuss them."

"Or," Fitz set his empty dish down. "We could talk about it now?"

"Now?"

"Yeah," he said. "If you don't have plans, I was thinking of taking a Christmas tour of the city. You're the local girl, maybe you could show me the sights, and we could talk about it. If you don't have plans." He added quickly.

"I don't have plans," she smiled. "I'd like that. I know just where to take you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas. I had most of my mum's side over for lunch today, and was constantly darting down to my basement to cool down (it was hot) and get some writing done. I hope you all enjoy!

"So, have you heard about the winter storm coming in?" Jemma asked as she led Fitz down the street. It was absolutely freezing out, and the snow was flying once more.

"Yeah," Fitz nodded, burrowed deep in his scarf. "I hear it's supposed to be the biggest storm on record right?"

She hummed in agreement. "I love snowstorms."

"Really?" he raised an eyebrow. "What do you love about them?"

Jemma flushed. "It's going to sound odd."

"That's alright," he smiled encouragingly.

"It's the silence," she started. "Even in the wind, there's just this serene silence. As the flakes whirl and swirl, and coats the world in a thick white blanket. I just feel at peace."

"You make it sound beautiful," he said. "I think this will actually be my first snowstorm. We moved to Los Angeles when I was nine, I remember snow, but I don't think I ever lived through a storm before we left Glasgow. And given my luck, I'll probably be stuck on the M1, instead of tucked away by a cosy fire."

"Just make sure to keep an eye on the weather," she laughed. "They always issue warnings when they think it's going to get really bad, even if they're wrong it's better safe than sorry."

"So where are we heading?" he asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"You'll see," she said mysteriously as she led him deeper into the city. 

It didn't take long for them to get there. "A Christmas Market," Fitz smiled when he saw the lights and stalls.

"It's one of my favourite places to come for unique gifts," she explained. "There are lots of local artists and craftspeople, cooks and candy makers. They play live music some nights, and there's a skating rink. It's wonderful."

They strolled through the various stands chatting and laughing. "It should be a wreath," Jemma told him as the pavlova came up. 

"A wreath?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "You draw two circles on parchment in the size you want. Then you place the meringue between the line and, spread it around, making trenches and pulling lines out. Then you garnish with the cream and some berries and a light dusting of icing sugar." 

"That sounds fantastic," he beamed at her.

"I'll send you some pictures," Jemma grinned, happy he was pleased. "And If you need me to, I'd be more than happy to come in and help you shape it or arrange the fruit If the owners of the Inn won't mind of course."

"I'm sure they won't."

"Oh," she pulled him with her as a stall caught her eye. "This one is amazing. A glassblower from Nottingham comes up every with these ornaments. My Dad and I used to go down the last Saturday of November and watch them work. They're all so beautiful. We haven't been in years."

Fitz looked at the hanging decorations as they twinkled in the fairy lights. Some clear while others were frosted glass. Coloured and clear as crystal, and in all assortment of shapes, sphere, egg, teardrops, all handblown, all stunning.

"Which one's your favourite?" Fitz asked as he saw the awe on Jemma's face.

"This one," she pointed to a frosted lamp shaped one, with little splashes of green in the drip. 

"Excuse me," he called the stall owner over and pointed at the ornament. "Can I get one of these, please?"

"Of course," the woman reached it down, and quickly wrapped it in paper and placed it in a gift bag. 

"Thanks," Fitz smiled.

"Merry Christmas," she wished, and they returned in kind as they moved on.

"So have you set up a tree yet?" she asked as Fitz pocketed his wallet.

"Getting there," he replied. "I have a tree, but it only has lights on it right now. Between work and the competition, I haven't had a whole lot of time to focus on it."

"Understandable," she nodded. "We're more of a grazing type of family when it comes to decorating. We'll sit down and have a few times where we decorate all together, but other times one of us will just walk by and put an ornament up."

"That's nice," he grinned.

Jemma went up to one of the stalls selling apple cider and held up her fingers for two. The man ladled out her cups and dropped a stick of cinnamon in each for decoration before he handed them over, and she held one out for Fitz.

"Thank you," he took a sip. "Delicious."

"You really need to get some gloves," she mused as he held the cup to the backside of his hands to warm them up. "Would you like to see the gardens?"

"Sure," he replied.

"They're incredible this time of year," she assured. "So what was Christmas like in Los Angeles?"

"Warm," he said with a laugh. "But festive."

"You said you moved there when you were nine," she said. "Why?"

"My dad got a job there," he shrugged. "So we packed it in and moved to America."

"Never lost the accent though," she grinned.

"Nope," he chuckled. "Held onto that. Can I ask you a question?"

She nodded

"Why do you want the bakery so bad?"

"Uh," she sat down on a nearby bench. "For my memories I guess, my childhood. It's the place where I learned to do what I do, what I love to do. There's a lot of happy tied up in that place. Plus the baking and the happiness it brings people, it's…" trailed off

"Magic?" offered

"Yeah, maybe it is," she shook her head with a laugh. "I guess I'm just afraid that if the bakery closes, then I'll lose that part of myself too."

"Huh," Fitz nodded. "But would you really be happy as a small town business owner? After living in London for so long?"

"Honestly, I think I'd be happier," she admitted. "London is a great place, but more and more, I find myself wanting to be here, and when I am here, I don't want to leave. So yes, I'd be very happy in the bakeshop."

"You won't miss all those fancy London trends," he teased, plucking at his scarf.

"No, not at all," she chuckled. "Being close to the people you love, the places, doing the things you love, nothing can beat it. The contest has only affirmed that."

"I guess we both really want to win then."

"We do," she nodded. "Moot point though

"Why is that?" 

"Really?" She looked up at him, but he genuinely puzzled. "Oh come on Fitz, you're the star baker, I was second from the bottom today, winning the bakery is a fantasy for me. But not for you."

"So what comes next then?" he asked, taking another pull of his hot cider.

"Realistically?" She thought for a moment. "I'll go back to London and to my job and you," she gave him a friendly little shove. "Will be the new owner of Lola's."

"Not if Bobbi has anything to say about it," he mused.

Jemma shook her head. "I don't even think she'd be able to tell the difference between your baker and her dad's. Not if she had no idea whose was whose."

"Wow," his eyes widened. "Now that is a compliment."

"I know, right?" she teased. "It's getting cold," she said as the wind started to pick up again. "Should we get a move on?"

"Yeah," nodded and rose from the bench, holding out a hand to pull her up.

She took him around a few more stalls before they decided to call it a night, it was just getting too cold. Fitz insisted on walking her home. "This is me," she said as they approached her front path.

"This is nice," he said, taking in lights. "Thanks for showing me what a Sheffield Christmas is all about."

"Thank you for walking me home," she smiled.

"Only because you indulged my fit of gallantry," he shook his head. "Here," he held out the bag with the ornament he bought. "For you."

"Oh Fitz I can't," she said, pushing the bag back to him. "You should put it on your tree."

"Please," he shook his head. "You could give it to your dad, as a reminder of old times with just the two of you. Maybe it could be the restart of an old tradition."

She bit her lip. "That's very thoughtful, Fitz. Thank you."

"Of course," he smiled. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Jemma."

"Good night, Fitz," she rose up on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Night," she heard him say softly as she moved inside the house. He stood rooted to the spot on the porch for a moment before he shook himself out of his thought and started his trek back to his flat.

*

Jemma got to the events barn early the next day. Koenig had given them all lanyard with a key the first day of the contest, and Coulson encouraged them to use the facility to practice if they wanted. Decided to give shortbread another go, making sure there was no egg anywhere near it this time. She just placed her confections in the oven when she heard the door to the barn open and shut

"Jemma," Fitz called in greeting as he walked into the space. "What are you doing here so early?"

"I wanted to get some practice in," she said. "You?"

"I just came to work on my decorating skills," he held up a shopping bag.

"Oh? What were you thinking of decorating?" 

"I found some practice patterns online," he blushed. "You put them under parchment or wax paper and trace."

"That's a great way to learn," she beamed. "Can I see what patterns you brought?"

*

As it turned out Jemma's decision to practice her shortbread was bordered on second sight, or so Fitz had joked as soon as it was drawn from the hat that day. And it paid off too, she placed second right behind Fitz. They said goodbye to Raina that night. "And now we're down to our final four," Coulson said from the front. "And only three more recipes to go before we announce our winner."

"After the final taste test," Bobbi reminded them all.

"And I have come up with a little twist for that," he winked at his daughter. "The last baker standing will place their dessert next to mine. Before Bobbi can even see them, she'll be blindfolded. Then she'll do the taste test."

"Wait, what?" The blonde turned her head sharply to the side. 

"If you pick mine, the bakery sells, like we agreed" Coulson explained. "But if you pick the winners, then they've won, fair and square."

"Challenge accepted," she smirked.

"Alright, everyone clear up your stations, leave your dishes at the back, and I'll handle them tonight," Hunter called. "See you all tomorrow."

Fitz snagged one of his and Jemma's cookies from a passing tray. "Good job Jemma," said trying not to spray crumbs from his bite. "Confectioners sugar?"

"How did you know," 

"It really makes it melt in your mouth."

"Well done, both of you," Laurel smiled as she came out of the audience. "That was incredible to watch."

"Thanks, Mum," she laughed.

"Thank you, Ms Simmons," Fitz grinned over from where he was wiping down their counter.

"Fitz," she drew his attention back to her. "I was wondering if you'd like to join us this evening? We're going to finish trimming our Christmas tree, it'd be more the merrier."

"Oh," he said in surprise. "That would be…I mean, yeah," he looked to Jemma. "If that's alright with you?"

"Why wouldn't it be" she smiled. "We'll finish up here and meet you back at the house?"

"See you there," Laurel smiled. "Try and nick us some shortbread if you can."

*

"Now as much as I like to cook and bake, I in no way claim to be an expert," Oliver told Fitz later that day as they wandered into the kitchen get the coffee ready. "But it seems to me that Jemma really is improving."

"She's determined to win," Fitz smiled.

"But she won't."

"We don't know that," he insisted. "Her shortbread was quite nice today."

"You're very kind, Fitz," he grinned. "But you are clearly the front runner. We only ask that you continue the Twelve Days when you take over."

"I promise," he assured. "Why mess with a good thing?"

"Exactly," Oliver nodded and grabbed the sugar dish.

"Is that Jemma?" Fitz pointed to a picture on the wall.

He turned to look where Fitz was pointing. "Oh yeah," he nearly cooed at the little girl in her apron as Coulson sat her on his knee, helping hold the large piping bag. "She was about six there. Just before Laurel and I got married, Coulson let her help decorate our cake. Wasn't she cute?"

"She is," Fitz nodded. "I mean was."

"Dad," Jemma came out of her room and into the kitchen, freshly changed. "Why are you showing Fitz baby photos?"

"Because you were adorable," Oliver said simply. "And come on, it's hardly a baby photo, now if you wanted I could go an get-"

"No, no, I'm good," Jemma shook her head, not wanting to know what he had in mind.

"Sorry. But your dad didn't show it to me," Fitz explained. "I saw it. You really were adorable."

"Thank you," she flushed. "Um, Mum and Lincoln are on their way down with the last box. Are we going to finish the tree?" 

It was great to see how welcoming her family was towards Fitz. He laughed with her mother, talked to her father about football and rugby, listen with wrapped attention as Lincoln relayed them with tales from the A&E. Time was soaring by. Jemma plated up some of the leftover cookies and brought them over to her family. "So the white and gold swirls are mine," she told them setting the plate down. "And the plaid circles are Fitz's."

Her Mum picked up one of her's bit into it. "Oh Jemma," she smiled. "That is so much better than the first batch."

Lincoln scooped up one of both and took a bite of Jemma's first. He hummed happily and took a sip of tea. "That's nice."

"Thank you," she gave a little bow and turned back to the tree.

"Oh," Lincoln moaned from behind her. "Wow. Now that's a shortbread cookie. Are you sure these aren't Coulson's? Mum, Dad, you gotta try these."

She looked at her brother over her shoulder, just as he picked up another of Fitz cookies, her own discarded beside him on a paper towel. "Well, thanks for that," she glared at her brother and left the room.

Jemma went outside bundled up in her coat as the snow fell in fat flakes all around her. She turned on table fire pit they'd gotten her dad last year and just watched the flames flicker, mulling things over in her head. There something about a fire that was always calming, but it was only amplified when it was snowing. She wasn't sure how long she out there when Fitz stepped outside. 

"I'm really sorry about that," he rubbed hands together. "I didn't mean to-"

"Be good at your job?" She lifted an eyebrow. "It's not your fault. My brother sometimes…"

"I get it," he crossed arms tight across his body. "Family during the holidays, right?"

"Yeah," she sighed and looked back up at him. "Please sit, you look freezing."

"Thanks," he sat down beside her and held his hands out to the flames. "Maybe I should have asked your advice on a pair of gloves."

"So," she started. "Speaking of family, the finale is on Christmas Eve, what about Christmas Day? Are you catching a flight to LA or Glasgow or anything? See your family?"

"Ah, no," he scratched his ear. "I don't have a lot of family left in either place. Besides, I have to be at the Inn early Boxing Day, it didn't make sense go anywhere this year. And I'm looking forward to having a white Christmas."

"Me too," she agreed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Fitz nodded.

"And you'll be totally honest?" she asked.

"Of course."

"If I'm so bad at baking," she sighed. "How did I make it this far? Was everyone else just that much worse or?" She could see Fitz chewing lip as he worked out what to say in his head. "I get it," she frowned. "I'm not good, but I'm not the worst, not yet at least."

"You want honesty?" Fitz checked. 

"Please."

"You aren't a bad baker Jemma," he said. "Your shortbread tastes good, your sticky toffee pudding was good. You followed a recipe, and you executed it perfectly."

"But that's somehow bad?" she asked, confused. "Baking is Chemistry, you follow the recipe perfectly, you decorate it perfectly, it should turn out perfect."

"It should but, you're forgetting Coulson's third category,"

"Magic," she rolled her eyes. "Are trying to tell me you trained at Hogwarts?"

Fitz let out a bark of laughter. "Not quite. Instead of magic think of as adding emotion. How you feel about the bakeshop, the traditions you have wrapped up in it, all those reasons you told me about the yesterday, that needs to be added into what you're doing. The happiness, the joy and determination, the memories. When you bake and allow yourself to feel, it adds something, and then you find yourself able to go off-script, change the recipe, and find something new and even more delicious. I think that's the magic Coulson's talking about."

Jemma didn't know how to respond to that. Fitz looked over his shoulder at the house. "Do you think your parents would mind if we got out of here for a bit?"

"No," she replied. "They wouldn't mind at all."

"Alright," he stood up and offered her his hand. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As to Laurel's (Jemma's mum's) last name still being Simmons, in my mind she just never took Oliver's last name when they got married. Also I have a recipe up on tumblr (Agent-Bash) feel free to give it a look. Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

Fitz led her into the inn stamping the snow off their boots, and shaking it off their coats. "Are you sure the owners won't mind we're here? I don't want to disturb anyone."

"Nah," Fitz shook his head. "Besides that part of the inn is far enough away, no one will hear us."

"I kind of feel like a spy," Jemma admitted as she followed him into the kitchens.

"You are a spy," he laughed. "Could you grab me two of those bowls over there?"

"You're putting me to work?" She asked, heading to the shelves and pulling down what he'd asked for.

"Think of it like homework," he shrugged. "Bring over the sugar and digestives too; they're under the island."

"Lucky for you, I loved homework in school. What's the assignment?"

"Confession?" he scratched his ear. "I've been a bit distracted with the contest, and completely forgot to make tomorrows dessert, eggnog cheesecake."

"Oh," hurried over and handed him the supplies. "Do you want to make them now?"

"Will you give me a hand?"

"Confession?" she repeated.

"You hate cheesecake?" he bit his lip.

"Love it," she countered. "And I have always wanted to know how to make one."

"Perfect," he beamed. "We'll start with the digestives."

He walked her through how to prepare the crust, showing her and talking as he worked. "Now some of this is a matter of preference. Personally, I like leaving some larger chunks in the base, I think it adds texture and makes the cake a bit more rustic. Other's insist that it needs to be as small and smooth as you can do it. Your choice. Remember it's not a science test, there's no wrong answer."

Once their crusts were prepped and in the oven, they moved onto the batter. She combined all the milk, the eggnog and everything stirring as Fitz looked on smiling. "So this," he pulled out a jar. "Is nutmeg. Give it a smell."

She inhaled deeply, the warm spice tickling her nose. "It smells amazing."

"Mmhmm," he agreed, bringing the jar to his own nose. "So here's the trick. I'm taking this," he pulled the recipe she'd been following away. "I want you to feel it, decide how much nutmeg to put in, then taste the batter."

"Okay," she laughed sceptically taking a pinch. Fitz watching sprinkled in. "Too much?"

"Don't ask," he shook his head gently. "Feel, taste."

She dipped a finger into the cream mixture lightly and touched it to her tongue. It tasted nice, she liked it but. "I think it needs more?"

"Don't ask," he said again and pushed the jar closer to her.

"It needs more," she said firmly and stirred in another pinch.

"Stir it in good," he said, going back to his own mixture, not giving her a chance to peek and see how much of the spice he had added.

"Alright," she did and took another taste, it was amazing how a few small pinches of nutmeg really brought through the flavour of the nog. It tasted like Christmas. "I think it's good."

"Perfect," he pulled their crusts over. "Now pour the batter."

"You ready for this?" he asked, carrying two plates with a small slice of her creation for each of them.

"Yes," she smiled and took a bite. She couldn't fight the smile that came to her face. Just before she left London, she'd had some eggnog cheesecake from a fancy restaurant in London, it didn't taste as good as hers. 

"Here we go," he grinned and took a fork full. Jemma watched as he chewed it was somehow more nerve-wracking than when she was being judged in the contest. "Well done," He smiled at her. "A plus, Miss Simmons. This tastes great."

She took another bite and grinned at him. "Well, I had a great teacher." 

"Nah," he waved her off. "You just needed a little encouragement. I have a confession to make."

"Another one?" she raised an eyebrow at him.

"There is no cheesecake on the menu tomorrow."

*

Jemma strode down the spice aisle of Izzy's store, looking for the nutmeg needed for today's draw, the eighth-day nutmeg logs. They were Lincoln's favourite, he was disappointed that he wasn't there for it that day, but she promised to drop a couple of them off at the hospital for him when they were finished. As she looked through all the different options and finally arrived at the nutmeg, she was floored. There was none there, not a single bag. "That's not possible," she muttered as Sharon and Tess came up behind her.

"What's wrong?" Sharon asked.

"There's no nutmeg," Jemma replied as she started flicking through the other bags, making sure it hadn't been placed on the wrong shelf.

"What?" The other two cried in unison, joining Jemma in her search.

"Problem ladies?" Fitz asked, sticking his head around from the next aisle.

"They're out of nutmeg," Sharon told him.

"It's completely gone," Jemma rose from knees after double-checking the lowest shelf.

"It could be a conspiracy," Tess said. "Maybe Izzy was upset that Vic went out in the first round, and she hid it for revenge."

"Or maybe," Izzy said, coming up behind them. "The shipment got stuck because of the storm. It's already closing most of the roads coming up from the south. We're also out of thyme and rosemary, and sage isn't far behind."

"But nutmeg is a key ingredient," Tess chewed at her finger. "What are we going to do without it?"

"I have some feelers out in a few places nearby," Izzy shook her head. "But there's not a lot I can do, I'm sorry."

Jemma looked back down the row to where Fitz was just as the man's head shot up and he rushed out of the store. Frowning in his wake, she left with the others as they lamented their luck on the way to check out. They would just have to make due. A small part of her thought that maybe Tess was right, perhaps it was a test from Coulson. He, or Hunter, or Bobbi could have snuck out ahead of them and bought out all the spice to see how'd they'd react in a crisis. She decided to make her cinnamon based, she was going add into her recipe as a little flavour boost. She had just started debating about adding cloves as well when Fitz rushed in, a broad grin on his face.

"Where did you disappear too?" Jemma asked as he plopped a bag down on their station.

"To get us this," he passed her a zippy bag full of the pale brown spice. "I have a stash of nutmeg at home."

"Thank you," she brought the bag up to her nose and inhaled, she wasn't sure she'd ever smelled anything as good. She looked over at Sharon and Tess as they each mulled over the spices in front of them. Would they have enough to share between them?

"Sharon," Fitz pulled out two more bags of spices tossed one to each of them. "Tess. Nutmeg's on me."

"You're the best Fitz," the blonde smiled at him and set to work immediately, as Tess raced around the table and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

Soon enough, they were all standing in front of the judges' table once more. "It was a great try, Tess," Coulson smiled sympathetically, as rest of the room applauded her effort. Fitz had, to the surprise of no one, come in first, but Jemma was creeping up on him, her lowest score of the day had an eight from Hunter. They left it to the final three to clean up, Jemma was topping up her decorations when Fitz came up to her. "I think you may have Bobbi running scared," she grinned at him. "Pretty sure I saw her do double-take after trying your dessert."

"Thanks," he flushed. "Jemma I was wondering…"

"Yes," she prompted as he trailed off.

"Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?"

"For another baking lesson?" she asked.

"No," he shook his head. "I mean we can, if that's what you want. But I was thinking more for that meal people eat in the evening."

"Oh," she hoped her eyes were not as wide as they felt. "Yes," She finally got out. "Yes, that sounds nice."

"Great," he beamed at her. "Say at eight o'clock? My place?"

"I'll be there."

*

"Was that your grandmother's?" Bobbi's voice came from her bed as Jemma held a dress up to herself in front of the mirror.

"It's mine," she glared over her shoulder.

"You sure?" the blonde quirked an eyebrow.

Jemma frowned but went to her closet to retrieve a few more options. "Explain this to me," Bobbi shifted and sat up. "If this isn't a date, then why are you being so uptight about what you're going wear?"

"I'm a decorator Bobbi," she held up the next option. "I like things to look nice, including me."

"Oh definitely not," Bobbi shook her head at the strappy red dress. 

"What's wrong with it?" 

"Nothing," she admitted. "If you're planning to do third date activities with Fitz on your not-a-date. A decision I fully support, just by the way."

"It's not a date," she insisted again and put the dress back. She heard her friend let out huff of air Jemma grabbed her next outfit. It was one of her favourites, a long black, with a small rose pattern all down the long sheer black sleeves. "What do you think?"

"Perfect," Bobbi sly smile. "For a date."

"We're just friends," she rolled her eyes and went behind her divider to change.

"Who's just friends?" Lincoln came into the room

"Her and Fitz," Bobbi shifted as he jumped on the bed beside her.

"Who are you kidding?" he scoffed at Jemma as she emerged, smoothing her dress down.

"It's Christmas," she intoned. "And he's alone."

"So, invite him here for Christmas," Lincoln grinned.

"Why don't you invite Daisy," she shot back.

"Who's Daisy?" Bobbi asked.

"Lincoln's girlfriend," Jemma grinned, she knew Bobbi would jump at that bit of information.

"You have a girlfriend?"

"It's new," Lincoln said. "And who says I haven't already invited her?"

"Have you?"

"The more, the merrier as far as Dad's concerned," he gave as a non-answer. "And you know Mum would love it if you asked Fitz to come, especially if he brings dessert."

"You are both getting way ahead of yourselves," Jemma went to her mirror and put in some earrings, rose studs that had been a gift from her grandmother. "Fitz is just being friendly, he's still new in town and doesn't know that many people yet."

"Uh-huh," Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Just so you're aware, you've given me about nine different cues that tell me this isn't just about forming a friendship. Maybe ten."

"I think you're radar or whatever it is is broken," she mused. 

"Are afraid he a workaholic like Wes?" Lincoln asked.

"Will," Jemma corrected. "And no. No I think I was wrong about that. Fitz is different; I don't think it's about money or promotion for him. It's his passion, he genuinely loves what he does. It does keep him very busy, though."

"What a come around," her brother smirked. "For your sake, I really hope this is a date."

"Stop saying that," she threw throw pillow at him. "The two of you, honestly."

"At least we know what's for dessert," Bobbi gave Jemma a once over, tugging the dress down a little. 

"Bobbi!" she admonished in shock.

"Eww," Lincoln blanched at the same time.

The blonde gave them an innocent smile. "I was just talking about the eggnog logs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy

Fitz’s flat smelled amazing, the warm, savoury scent hitting her as soon as he opened the door to let her in. “Make yourself at home,” he placed her coat in the front hall closet and led her to the kitchen. 

“Whatever you’re making smells amazing,” she said. “What is it? Coq au vin? Duck confit?”

“Nothing quite so fancy,” he lifted the tinfoil tent of a platter. “Just a roast Chicken with roasted veg and potatoes on the side. I have some soup as well if you’d like.”

She saw a crockpot sitting on the far counter. “That’s a very simple meal,” Jemma mused. “And I mean that as a compliment.”

“I like simple,” he smiled softly and gave the soup a stir. “It’s all we could afford growing up.”

“You make it sound like you were poor,” she sat on one the bar stools. 

“As church mice,” Fitz looked over to her. “Especially after my dad left.”

“I thought you moved to LA with him?” she asked.

“We did,” he nodded. “After about a year he took off in the middle of the night. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since. It’s for the better really, Dad, well, let's just say he wasn’t a good man.”

“And you and your mum just stayed in Los Angeles?”

“We could barely afford airfare back to Glasgow, let alone trying to get set up there again,” he shrugged. “So, we stayed in California. We had our green cards, so working wasn’t an issue, mum was a nurse, and I worked odd jobs when I was old enough. We were luckier than most, we had an apartment, there was always enough to eat. Always good home-cooked food, healthy, local, and made with love, like Coulson’s. Would you like a taste?” he gestured to the soup

“Please,” she shook herself out of shock. That had not at all the image she had in mind when she pictured Fitz’s childhood. She watched him as he loaded a spoon for her, blowing on it to cool it down. He placed a hand under it to catch the drips and brought it over to her. She leaned across the counter and allowed him to feed her. “That’s incredible,” she swallowed. 

“My Mum’s split pea, it goes really well with the chicken. Do you want a bowl with supper?”

“Sure,” she smiled and looked over her shoulder to the kitchen table. His computer and a few notebooks and bits and papers were scattered all over the place. “Want me to set the table?”

“Sure,” Fitz nodded, a faint blush dusted his cheeks, forgotten about all that stuff. “That would be great.”

“That was even more delicious than it smelled,” Jemma said as she finished her plate. “Though I do have to admit, I was expecting something French.”

Fitz just shook his head. “French food is all well and good, but I’, just a boy from Glasgow who loves to bake, nothing complicated.”

“But you are,” Jemma said.

“I am?” he asked, taking their plates over to the sink.

“I think so,” she watched as he pulled a frame counter and brought it back with him.

“Since I saw one of yours,” he handed it to her.

She looked at the photograph eagerly. In it, a young boy with a head full of sandy brown curls, stood wearing an apron so big on him it was hanging over his feet and pooling on the step stool he was standing on. He mixing something in a bowl with a big wooden spoon, as a woman who had the same curly hair and blue eyes, stood beside him, smiling and staring at him fondly. “Aww,” she smiled. “Is that your Mum?”

“Yeah, it is,” he nodded. “She was the best.”

“Was?”

Fitz paused and closed eyes, clearly he had not meant to use that particular slip of the tongue. “Yeah,” he finally nodded. “Yeah, she died about five years ago now.”

“Oh Fitz,” Jemma set the photo down and placed a comforting hand on top of his. “I’m so sorry. Was she sick?”

He shook his head. “We were in a car accident. Another car hit us on the Pacific Coast Highway, we went over the edge and into the ocean.”

Jemma’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god.”

“I woke up in hospital nine days later. I had a broken arm, and a TBI brought on by cerebral hypoxia. Mum didn’t,” he cleared his throat. “She didn’t make it.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, she couldn’t even imagine. “That must have been so hard.”

“It was,” he nodded, his thumb digging into the palm of his left hand again. She wondered if that’s the arm he’d broken if it still pained him after all this time. “I had to relearn how to do everything, how to walk, how to talk, everything. And I had to do it without her. Rehab was a nightmare. But when I could finally talk again, I shared stories her my therapist, Gabe. He suggested I start baking again as a tool to practice my motor skills and test memory. I resisted for a while, but when I finally got myself back in the kitchen, it was like I never left, and it felt like Mum was right there with me.”

“That’s beautiful,” she looked at the photo again. “So was she.”

“She was,” he nodded. “She was the one who passed down her passion for baking. We made everything ourselves after dad left; bread, stock, preserves, it was special. Especially during the holidays. We’d bake gifts for friends and neighbours and the shelter a few blocks away.”

“So is that how you became a pastry chef?” she asked. “No fancy french culinary school for you?”

Fitz let out a barking laugh. “No,” he shook his head. “No, not at all. I’ve never even been to France. And to be honest, I’m just a baker. The Inn owners say pastry chef because it suits their brand. I’m not going to complain, I'm happy in the kitchen, where I’m reminded of my mum.”

“And that’s why you want the bakery?”

“That’s why,” he nodded. “I want to give what Mum gave me to as many people as possible.”

“Speaking of gifts,” she took the segue to a happier topic. “I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

“What for?”

“The egg,” Fitz raised an eyebrow at her, but she was not going to let him play innocent. “The egg that you slipped into my batter the first day of the contest.”

“And here I thought I was so stealthy,” he smiled.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. “I was so rude to you, why did you help me?”

“It was an honest mistake,” he shrugged. “Especially under that kind of pressure. Besides, I wanted to keep you around.”

“Really?” she tilted her head to the side. “Why?”

“I liked our batter banter.” 

*

The next round of Coulson’s confections was the peppermint yule log. Jemma looked over at Fitz and smiled as she watched him carve bark lines into his frosting with an offset spatula. She’d have to show him the fork method later, it made things much faster, but she liked the look of concentration on his face. She’d just finished placing the last of her mushroom-shaped meringues when Coulson called time.

“So, there is a slight change of plans for today’s judging,” Coulson said as her, Fitz and Sharon lined up at the front. “I thought it would be fun to make today a blind tasting day.”

“Wait,” Bobbi frowned. “I thought that was for my final decision.”

“Just think of it as practice,” her father said quickly before moving on. “And to make it even more of a challenge, we’re going to start fresh with the scores. Everyone has a clean slate today. Then, Hunter, Bobbi and I will be blindfolded in turn, and take a bite of each dessert. From there we’ll each choose our favourite, one, two or three. Whoever places third the most, will be eliminated, in the event of a tie, we’ll go back to a based score system.” 

“Looks like a tie for second place,” Coulson said after his turn, and the numbers were revealed to him. It was no surprise that Fitz was in first, but Hunter had chosen Sharon’s attempt as his second-place while Coulson had chosen Jemma’s. “Ladies,” he addressed them both. “ Either one of you could be eliminated next.”

Hunter tied the blindfold on Bobbi, while Coulson made a show of rearranging coloured plates. “Ready?” he asked his daughter, picking up a fork full of the first one.

“Yes,” she said and opened her mouth to be fed. She took her time chewing each piece making sure she cleared her mouth with a sip of water in between each. “Two is my first choice,” she said as she took off the blindfold.

Hunter grabbed the green plate. “That’s Fitz’s.” Claps rose out from the audience, as Fitz smiled shyly. 

“The other two were both good, but” she took a deep breath. “I found the texture of the filling in one a little off. It wasn’t thick enough to stand up to the cake. While the peppermint in three was too heavy-handed for me, it overwhelmed the rest of the dish.”

“So of the two, what's your second choice, Love,” Hunter pressed.

“I’ll go with one,” she said after a moments thought. “I think the whip is an easy enough fix compared to over or under flavouring.”

Hunter took up the plates and plugged the information into his laptop, showing Coulson the results with a frown. “Sharon,” the older man started. “I’m sorry it was a valiant effort.”

The young blonde hung head for a second but raised her chin up high as the audience clapped for her. “Thanks, you guys,” she turned and pulled Jemma into a hug. “Good luck both of you,” she said. “I’ll come to watch tomorrow.”

“Good job Sharon,” Fitz said.  
“Well done,” Jemma gave her hand a squeeze.

“You know,” Bobbi leaned into her dad as the crowd started to disperse. “If your cake was in the mix, I would have known right away.”

“We’ll see,” he said sagely moved from the table to assist with the cleanup.

“So, it’s just the two of us now,” Fitz mused, as Jemma passed him a few dishes. He was going to load the dishwasher while she wiped down the surfaces.

“And I am going to kick your butt, Leo Fitz,” she smiled smugly at him.

“Of course you are,” he grinned and took the bin to the back room.

As she finished with the last table, her phone buzzed from her pocket. Piper’s photo and number flashed up on the screen. “Hello, Piper. Happy Holidays, how are you?”

“I’m doing great now,” the woman said. “Jemma you got the job.”

“What?” she asked, not believing what she heard.

“Urban Gourmet, they want to hire you,” Piper repeated. “I told you, you were a shoo-in.”

“That’s amazing news,” she fought a grin. “Thank you.”

“Welcome to the team Jemma.”

“I can’t wait,” She looked over where Fitz stood, talking with parents and felt all joy deflate.

“Jemma, did you hear me?” Piper’s voice came from the phone.

“Sorry,” she shook her head. “What was that?”

“I said, now we can do lunch and after work drinks five days a week if you want.”

“That sounds great Piper,” Jemma forced some cheer into her voice.

“We can be each other’s wing women,” the other woman mused. “There are plenty of men and women in this city to keep us both busy for a while.”

Jemma looked back over to Fitz, taking him as he laughed with her dad. “Is there?”

“It’s London,” Piper replied. “All the best catches are here.”

Jemma wasn’t so sure about that, as Fitz turned to smiled at her. He pointed to a slice of cake, her's she assumed, by the thumbs-up, he shot her way.

“I forgot to mention,” Piper’s voice came again. “We need you in London on Boxing Day, we have a giant New Years Day layout to shoot for the website.”

Jemma frowned. “That’s not a lot of time.”

“I know,” the other woman sympathized. “We’ll be burning the midnight oil for sure. But come one, workaholics like us, it’s what we do. Merry Christmas Jemma.” she hung up before Jemma could get a word in edgewise.

Jemma put her phone back in her pocket with a frown and walked over to her family and Fitz. Forcing a smile on her face, she delivered the news. “I got the job Urban Gourmet.”

“Congratulations, Jemma,” her mum was the first to shake off her shock.

“I’m proud of you,” Oliver said with a grimace. Laurel had prompted him with an elbow to the ribs.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “It’s a dream job.”

“Does this mean you’re forfeiting?” Jemma turned and saw Coulson standing behind her. His forehead crinkled. “So you can go back to London?”

“No,” Jemma insisted, a plan already forming in her mind. “I can’t just let Fitz win without a little friendly competition.”

“Good,” he smiled, but Jemma could still see the sadness in his eyes.

“I’m happy for you,” Fitz cleared his throat. “If it’s what you want. Urban Gourmet is a fantastic magazine, they’re lucky to have you.”

“I have to admit it doesn’t quite feel real,” she didn’t know what else to say. “I’ve wanted an opportunity like this for my whole career.”

“I guess Christmas came early for you this year,” he smiled and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the Inn. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Jemma felt her heart clench as she watched him walk away. She was tempted to go after him, to explain herself better, but she couldn’t. He had to get to work, and she had a plan to put in motion. She just needed to speak with Coulson first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in a recipe to go along with the story check out my Tumblr, I'm Agent-Bash over there.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

Jemma rushed into Lola's later that afternoon, the snow finally beginning to fly in earnest now, falling in thick fast sheets. She very nearly looked like a snowman as she stepped inside and headed straight to the back with a quick wave over her shoulder to Hunter. She found Coulson in the kitchens taking blueberry muffins out of the oven. "Jemma," he grinned at her. "This is a surprise."

"I know," she panted, shaking off the snow on her hat. "Coulson I need to ask you for a favour."

"For you," he started moving the muffins from the tin to a rack to cool. "Anything."

"I need you to promise me that Fitz will win tomorrow."

He looked up at her in shock. "Are you asking me to fix the contest?"

"No," she shook her head. "You and I both know I'm not going to beat Fitz at baking. I've improved, and I'm happy about that, but I have no chance, not really. Especially in the blind taste test."

"We don't know that for sure."

"I do," she insisted. "And I can't just let Lola's close. Besides, I've gotten to know Fitz a lot throughout the contest. I know you know how good he is at baking. But he is also so passionate and dedicated, and his reasons for wanting the bakery are so genuine and wonderful. I can make London work for me, but he needs this, he deserves this."

"Wow," Coulson quirked his head to the side. "That's high praise coming from you, I know how apprehension you've been about the whole thing."

"I know I was," she agreed. "But I know you can't go wrong letting the bakery go to Fitz. You can't do better passing your legacy onto him. And he will work hard every single day to show you and Bobbi and everyone that you made the best possible choice."

"I'll do what I can Jemma," he said after a moments thought. "But I won't trick my daughter. It'll ultimately come down to how well Bobbi knows my baking."

"I don't think that'll be much of a problem," Jemma twisted her finger. "I've had Fitz's baking and Coulson, I hope you aren't offended, because they're both wonderful, but I can't notice a difference."

"Well," he chortled. "I can't say I disagree."

Jemma let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Coulson."

"I will say," he added. "I'll miss you when you go back to London. It's been so nice seeing you back here Jemma."

"I'll be back next Christmas," she promised. 

"So will I," he smiled.

"Good," she reached out and squeezed his arm. "I've got to go, I'll see you tomorrow."

She hurried to leave the shop, but her path was blocked by what appeared to be a yeti. "Hi," the abdominal snowman greeted in a muffled Scottish.

"Fitz," she moved to tug the scarf from his face and brushed some of the snow off his shoulders. "Hi. What brings you by?"

"I just came to get a gingerbread latte," he took off dusted off the rest of his jacket. "It's become a bit of an addiction, I'll have to see if Coulson will give me his recipe. What about you?"

"Same," she lied and tugged on her gloves.

"Then where's your coffee," he looked down at her empty hands.

"Oh I," she stammered. "I drank it already. I'll see you later, Fitz."

"Bye Jemma," he said and waited until she was out the door and down the street before he hurried to the kitchens, he needed to talk to Coulson.

"So let me get this straight," the older man took a sip of his water, kneading dough was thirsty work. "You want me to fix the contest so that Jemma will win."

"Fix is an ugly word," Fitz wrinkled his nose. "I just think Jemma really deserves to win."

"Even though you're clearly the better baker," he pointed out.

"That very kind of you, sir," Fitz cleared his throat. "And know I'm overstepping, but Jemma's not going be happy taking that job in London. She as much as told me so herself. But I know she will be here, she just needs a reason to stay. And you know how much she loves this place, you couldn't be leaving it in better hands."

"This is very noble of you, Fitz," Coulson sat back in his chair.

"I can be content baking at the Inn, Jemma needs this," he implored. "And if her baking isn't as good as it needs to be then just sub in one of mine. I doubt it'll come to that though, you've seen how much she's improved. And you know she'll learn, please Coulson."

"I'll see what I can do," he smiled at the younger man.

"Thank you," Fitz sat back in relief. "Thank you so much."

When Fitz left the room, Coulson turned to Hunter. "Did you hear all that?"

"Complete goners," the younger man shook his head as he loaded up plates for the front. "The two of them."

"They do say that Christmas is the most romantic time of year."

"So what you going to do?" he asked. "You told 'em both you'd help them."

"I have a plan," Coulson winked and went back to his kneading. 

*

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Coulson stood in front of the crowd in a nice suit. "Jemma and Fitz. Welcome to the final bake-off, thank you all for being here today, on Christmas Eve. We promise you that we'll have you out of here in more than enough time to get home and celebrate with your families."

Jemma looked around the hall, it was packed to the rafters; former contestants, locals, and her family. She waved over to them and looked at the woman his brother had his arm wrapped around. She was a pretty brunette, with wavy hair that just dusted her shoulders. The woman was right in the middle of making Lincoln laugh, his face alight with a glee Jemma wasn't sure she'd ever seen before. She was pretty sure she was going to like this, Daisy. 

"As it's Christmas Eve," Coulson drew her attention back to the front. "It seems only fitting that the final challenge is my first day of Christmas iced biscuits. Just in time for Santa's visit down the chimney."

The crowd chuckled as the lights flickered off and on. A few gasps and murmurs sprang up as people looked around, but fortunately, nothing more happened. "Very often," Coulson continued. "The simplest things in life often make us happiest. But simple shouldn't be confused with ease, which is what makes it all the sweeter. So without further ado, let the bake-off begin!"

Jemma turned to Fitz, and gave him a broad smile, she excited to see her plan in motion. "Good luck," she wished, though she knew he wouldn't need it.

"You got this," Fitz returned and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze as they both set to work. Making their doughs, chilling them in the freezer to quicken the process as they each set about how they were going to decorate their wares. Jemma chose a pretty snowflake cutter, while Fitz selected a gift.

They had just shut the oven doors on their trays when the wind howled from outside and the lights cut out. "What just happened?" a voice called from the audience.

"The power went out," Jemma responded, feeling the rapidly cooling oven. "Because of the storm most likely."

"It probably took out the whole block," Fitz added.

"Are we going to be able to finish the contest?" Oliver asked, placing a comforting hand on Jemma's shoulders.

"I don't think so," Coulson said. "Not like this, at least."

Jemma chewed at her lip, this was no a part of the plan. "Can we freeze the dough?"

"You have to be in London in two days," Laurel supplied. "It has to be tonight."

"The bakery has a generator," Hunter snapped his fingers. "We could go there."

"Hunter, I don't think I've ever said this, but you're a genius," Coulson clapped him on the shoulder. "Fitz, Jemma, grab your trays. Everyone! If you could please proceed to the bakery, we'll continue from there."

Once Fitz helped Hunter and Coulson get their generator up and going things went smoothly. They got their biscuits back in the oven, no harm done. In fact, with the larger ovens of the bakery available to them, they were able to make up all their dough, more than enough for the whole crowd to take home if they so wished.

The only downside is that the bakery was a lot more cramped than the events hall. The audience eagerly looked over their shoulders as they set to work decorating their attempts. "Alright bakers," Coulson announced some time later. "Time is up."

They both stepped back from the table, and Fitz wiped brow, leaving a streak of red icing behind on his forehead. Jemma chuckled and reached up with her cloth, to wipe it away. "May the best baker win," she whispered to him.

"I'm pretty sure she will," he grinned at her.

They each plated up some of their biscuits and took them to the front, where Bobbi sat waiting at a table. The blonde stood beside her chair, waiting. Jemma swallowed hard, she was confident in Fitz's baking, but her friend still had a fifty-fifty chance of picking her father's dish, she didn't like those odds.

"So everyone," the blonde called loudly, the chattering crowd falling silent. "As many of you know, when we first started this competition, I had my doubts. I didn't want someone to just come in and run roughshod over my dad's legacy. So I added in a clause to our contest, I had a final veto, and if the winner wasn't able to bake exactly like my dad, then the bakery would close."

The crowd started to murmur again. "But," Bobbi raised a hand. "I've come to the realization that it's not my place to do that."

Jemma glanced at Fitz. This was good news for her plan, there was no way she was beating him. "No one can replace my dad, but just because he's leaving, doesn't mean that the bakery should close. This place isn't just his, or mine, it belongs to the entire neighbourhood, everyone who has or will have traditions and memories wrapped up within the walls of this building. I think, no, I know that that legacy will be safe in the hands of either of our two finalists." 

The audience clapped wildly as Coulson pulled his daughter into a tight hug. "Let's get this tasting started," she called and took her place at the table. 

Bobbi picked up one of Jemma's snowflakes and held it so the audience could see. "Well, no surprises here, it certainly looks gorgeous," she said, admiring the delicately piped shimmering pearl lines against the pale blue back. She snapped off a bite and popped it in her mouth and chewed slowly, letting the flavours melt over her tastebuds. "And with a taste that would make Santa linger all night long."

The crowd clapped, and Jemma felt Fitz squeeze her shoulder as she shared a look with Coulson. She was happy that Bobbi liked her biscuit, but with the change in plans, it was not what she wanted to hear. 

Bobbi took a sip of water to cleanse her palet and took up Fitz's present shaped biscuit. "It seems you're finally getting the hang of this decorating thing, Fitz," she complimented and bit into it. "It's a good thing Santa can stop time because I don't think he'd leave either of your houses in a hurry and we'd be opening all our presents in January."

Fitz's forced a smile on his face and nodded his thanks to Bobbi. As she took another bite of each biscuit, his head snapped up to Coulson, what was happening, this was not what they agreed to.

Bobbi rose from her chair and huddled together with her father and Hunter, to discuss their options. Jemma was nervous, she looked to her left and grabbed Fitz's hand, squeezing it tightly, this had to go well, for him, she hoped Coulson would be able to sway them.

Fitz rubbed his thumb gently over her knuckles. He hoped Coulson would be able to talk them into it declaring Jemma the winner. She needed this, she needed Sheffield, and that would only happen if she had a good reason to stay. Maybe she'd even hire him, he liked how they well worked together, they made a good team. He'd be fine staying at the Inn, but he'd leave in a heartbeat to work at Lola's with her.

"We've reached our decision," Coulson stepped back from the circle. "Given Bobbi's indecision about choosing between the two samples, I'm afraid I have no choice but to declare a tie! Congratulation, Fitz, Jemma," he beamed at them. "You both win the bakery."

The audience erupted in cheers and applause, as Jemma and Fitz shared a disbelieving look.  
"There is, however, one stipulation," Bobbi stepped forward. "You have to run it together."

Fitz let out a light laugh and turned to Jemma. "I'm willing if you are."

"Definitely," she smiled at him.

Fitz pulled her into a hug and Jemma burrowed her head into where his neck met shoulder as he squeezed her tight. 

"Well," Coulson grinned impishly as the two broke their hug, his plan had worked perfectly. "I think it's time to get our new bakery owners to sign the lease, make it official."

Bobbi reached into her bag and pulled out a leather portfolio. "I can't think of a better early Christmas present."

Laurel stepped forward, took it, ever the lawyer. "I just want to give it a quick look through."

"Hey," Hunter's head jerked over to them. "This means I get to keep my job, right?"

"Of course," Fitz nodded, his arm still wrapped around Jemma's waist. 

"It's not Lola's without you, Hunter," Jemma added.

"And you too Bobbi," Fitz looked at the blonde woman.

"Me?" she questioned. "What good can I do?"

"Other than making sure we continue to be up to snuff," Jemma continued for Fitz. "I - we, think it would be a good idea to put a security system in place. And there's no one better to help with that than you."

The applause continued around them as Jemma's family moved forward with hugs for them both. Lincoln lifted her up and spun them around a few times before he sat her down. "I'm so proud of you," he whispered in her ear. "And I'm so glad you'll be staying."

"Thank you," she hugged her brother once more. 

Lincoln jerked his chin over her shoulder to where Fitz stood in deep conversation with their father and Daisy. "I think you two should go and talk," she winked. "He is your business partner now after all, sure you have a lot to discuss. I'll keep the rest busy."

Jemma smirked and moved at once. She ran a hand over hand his shoulder and smiled at the other two. "I'm sealing him for a minute," and without waiting for a response led Fitz over to the far side of the room.

"Congratulations, Fitz," she pulled him into another hug.

"You too Jemma," he replied, leaned back in her arms. 

She tightened her hold his waist, not let him get far. "Are you ready for this?"

"Yeah," he smiled softly. "What about you? You're not going to miss London or working for Urban Gourmet?"

"No, not at all." she leaned into him again. "I'm going to email them as soon as we're one here, thanking them but rejecting their offer."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she assured. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Confession?" he one hand to scratch his ear. Jemma pulled it back down and threaded their fingers together.

"What it is?"

"I asked Coulson to make sure you won," he winced. "Not that I don't think you earned it, I snuck one of your cookies, it was amazing."

Jemma laughed and tipped her head against his collar bone. "What?" he asked.

"I asked him to do the same thing," she looked up at him. "I would have done anything, make sure you won."

He leaned down slowly, pressing his forehead against hers. "I guess he kept his promise to both of us then."

"In spectacular fashion," she tilted head up. "Fitz…" 

She didn't finish what she was going to say, as he leaned in the rest of the way and sealed their lips together. She trailed one hand up Fitz's back and tangled her fingers in his curls, they were much softer than she'd imagined them being. When they separated, they were both grinning.

"I think we're going to make a great team," he breathed and rested his forehead against hers again. 

"You bake," she pecked him on the lips. "I decorate. And together we are-"

"Unstoppable," Fitz finished and pulled her into another. Christmas couldn't get any sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. If you're anything like Fitz (or me) and you've also developed a slight addiction to gingerbread lattes then head on over to my tumblr (Agent-Bash) and check out a recipe for a DIY.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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